


Ghosts

by Shaish



Series: Ghosts [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, But Steve and Bucky are intense, Dark, F/M, Gen, Goodness help me what has this become, Happy Ending, I don't really want to label relationships because everyone's fluid like people are in real life, LOTS of violence, M/M, Physical Trauma, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers is the Winter Soldier, Steve with long hair, Trauma in general, Violence as a form of expression, Winter Soldier Steve, Winter Soldier Steve AU, crazy violent sex, lots of pain, mental trauma, on your left, on your right, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 70,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish/pseuds/Shaish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What if Steve and Bucky both fell in 1944?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghost Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only chapter from Natasha's point of view.
> 
> Because a lot of people have been pointing this out, I'll just let everyone know what's up! I, Shaish, wrote this story. Gina, aprofessorstale, shoved me over the cliff with my idea as parachute and sometimes gave me ideas and beta'd like 90%? Of this entire series. Just trying to clear up some confusion because many seem to think this and others I've done are co-written, but they're not. 
> 
> The Stranger is Gina's story, and _I_ beta'd that one, but it is written solely by the amazing Gina.  Any others that you see with both our names on them are currently written by me, Shaish, and beta'd by Gina. Just trying to clarify. (:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only chapter solely from Natasha's point of view.

She sees him sometimes, after. When she's walking the halls, getting to a destination she's never picked. She sees flashes of him training others who will become like her, sees him spin and duck and slice and jab, like a tornado kept in a too small room. Sometimes she passes him in the hall, but he never looks at her, not anymore. She's another body, another thing taking up space that he hasn't yet been assigned to recognize as either a target or a threat. This is the only thing she is remotely grateful for, though "grateful" is a gross overstatement. 

Sometimes she wishes he would look at her, even if it is not like he used to. But love is for children and she owes him a debt that she's in no position to repay, not yet. This should be her sign, his lack of acknowledgment, but it's hard to determine something like that here when everyone is being watched. 

So she speaks to him, once, a confirmation. He does not know who she is. She won't press.

She's walking down a hall, a hall she's walked down countless times when she hears the shout. It's from another hall branching off of the one she's on, more of a corridor, really. It's dark, far more dimly lit than the one she's making her way down. She assumes that’s meant to keep attention away from it, make it less noticeable. She'd be lying if she said she _never_ noticed it, though she'd never tell that to anyone. She doesn't have a death wish. 

She glances around quickly, listens carefully for any others that may be nearby before she darts as silently as she can down the dimly lit corridor. It's a risk, which both thrills her and makes her more cautious, adrenaline pumping through her veins. 

She stops at the corner, back pressed to the wall, leaning over _just enough_ to get a tight look down the left hall-

And freezes, eyes widening fractionally. 

He's there, throwing a man over his shoulder and kicking another in the chest, turning to- Ah. There's another hall branching off further down, just as dimly lit as the one she's lurking in. There are more men pouring out of it, three- five- She doesn't envy the wounds they'll be waking up with. If they wake up. If they survive at all. 

One of the men on the floor, sturdier than she would have thought - but considering where they are it probably shouldn't surprise her - manages to jab something into the hurricane's left calf. He doesn't scream, doesn't make a sound, but he does let out a _pained_ breath as the electricity courses through his convulsing body. His metal arm is sturdy, the currents aren't enough to cause it to malfunction, but the same can't be said for what's left that's flesh. It's only a second, but it's enough. 

The three men converging from the hall join the others and force him to his knees, yelling Russian in his snarling face. He growls out something in English that takes her a moment to translate before the leader of their organization rounds the corner onto the scene, calm and composed as if his men weren't just getting thrown around like sacks of flour. Everyone stills, herself included as she stares, their leader stopped in front of the hurricane on his knees a couple feet away. He's confident, that much she knows, to get so close. A leash on his most vicious dog.

They're speaking too low for her to hear everything - she'd have to get closer and that clearly isn't an option - but a moment later and the men are letting the man up off the ground, shoving at him as they do. He doesn't react, but his face is no longer held in a snarl. 

It's blank, as blank as his eyes were when he looked at her, and he rises with a swiftness everyone in the facility envies. 

He turns abruptly and faces a door at the end of the long hall, entering silently after their owner uses a retinal scan to open it. Three men follow him inside, looking none too pleased about it, before quickly schooling their features into a bored blank. 

The door shuts almost as silently as he walked through it.

Two fallen men are lifted over shoulders, hauled away like trash to be taken out, muttering silently to their leader as they head back down the other hall. She waits a few moments, listening intently as the voices and footsteps get further and further away, far enough for her to tread silently down the hall and stop in front of the door the hurricane went through.

There's a small, square window, low enough for her to risk a look inside, metal wiring threaded through thick, bulletproof and - what she suspects - soundproof glass. Her eyes widen further this time at what she sees and she _freezes_ for an entirely different reason.

The hurricane is sitting next to a long metal tube angled up in the center of the room, the room dark except for the light above the tube casting down a frozen white glow over the metal. It's bright, reflecting off of metal off of metal off of metal, the barest trace of frozen steam rising up out of the back from thick cables she can see the edges of poking out around the silver. 

The tube is facing her but slanting down towards the floor in her direction, like a child’s slide, and she can't see much through the small, square glass window near its top. She gets an impression of _blonde_ through what she _can_ see before there's a metal hand obscuring her view, pressed protectively, almost _lovingly,_ over the glass. She'd laugh at the thought of him lovingly doing _anything_ now, but when her eyes glance to his face they meet _his_ \- 

She lets out a small _gasp_ before she turns and runs silently back down the hall, turning right and heading back into false light. 

Her breath is still coming quick until she forces it to steady, steps slowing to a practiced pace and face schooling into a mask, the perfect picture of calm, but inside she's _ablaze_ , mentally going over the part of the exchange that she _had_ been able to overhear:

_"He shouldn't have it. Shouldn't have anything."_

_"It's not your place to decide. Besides, it's the one thing we can't get rid of no matter how hard we try."_

_"Sir?"_

_"It's not important. The soldier will sleep forever and the dog will obey. It's not even a price worth mentioning."_

_"Sir."_

And it's then that she remembers the English word, and her quick mind is more than capable figuring out what it was meant for now.

" _Mine_ ," the hurricane had said, with the most emotion she'd heard from him in a _long time_.

 

It was only a glance, their eyes only locked for a moment, but there was something deep there she'd only seen a glimpse of on his face once before, after she'd completed her first mission and he was there at her side, looking down at her in the night.

 _Possessive_ , she thinks, is a dangerous thing. But somehow it's fitting of The Winter Soldier. 

Of a _ghost_.


	2. Ghost Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from The Winter Soldier's point of view.

He's following his feet whether he tells them to stop or not. They know where they're going, he doesn't. It makes him feel something - fear maybe - frustration. They won't listen to him though, so for now he warily lets them choose the path.

He stops in front of a door. It's old and a darker grey than the walls, the dim lighting making it look darker. He doesn't know what's beyond it, just that there's something pulling him and he needs to get inside, get to whatever lies in wait beyond the slightly fogged glass.

He's about to look through said glass when there's a short word spit out from his back left ( _ten feet away. 250 pounds. Armed. Two of them_ ). He doesn't look away from the door, but his focus has shifted.

_"Leave."_

_"Go back to your room."_

_"I said leave!"_

They're orders, commands in Russian, and he should obey. But there's something burning in his chest.

He's _angry_ , he realizes, the surprise of it buried underneath all of the _heat of it_.

They aren't stupid enough to touch him, but they are stupid enough to get closer, close enough. He spins and they both pull guns. He blocks with his left arm, darting in close to twist the neck of one and punch the other in the throat, using his left palm to collide metal into the cartilage of a nose, shoving it up and into the brain. They're both down in seconds, but there's already more coming. Three. One lets out a shout when he breaks his arm, and then there's more and he's on his knees, panting heavily. It's not from exertion, he's just _so **angry**_.

" ** _Mine_** ," he growls out at them, it comes out in English and from somewhere deep, and he only has a fraction of a second of surprise before it's buried under the fire in his chest again. It doesn't matter what language he speaks, he just _needs_ to _get into that room_.

His master is coming, he can tell by the sound of his footsteps.

He doesn't realize his face is contorted in rage until there's shoes in his line of sight and he's forced to smooth it out. Angry as he is, biting the hand that owns him won't get him any closer to getting passed that door into that room.

His owner’s speaking and he should be listening, but he can't focus. It's only through intense concentration on the door and the bodies around him that he keeps himself from glancing back to it. He's hyper aware of it and how many obstacles are in his way, can feel the door and whatever's behind its presence like a fire burning his skull from its direction. And it's not the number of bodies that warns him from killing them all. Because he could, he knows he could, easily. But it's the chair and electricity that he knows are coming, and a fear he can't place that knows if he does anything, then what's beyond the door will be taken from him for forever.

So he doesn't listen, but he doesn't indicate that he _can't_ get himself to listen either.

The man finishes talking - it's short and to the point, that's all he knows - before the bodies are shoving at him as they release their hold on his arms and shoulders, forcing him forward before he, too, rises in one fluid motion. The man that spoke is moving over and a light scans his eye, but his attention is swiftly redirected to the almost silent sound of the door popping open. He doesn't ask or wait, simply slides inside, knows there are bodies following him, just as he knows there's another further down the hall and around the corner watching.

But it doesn't matter, his eyes are focused on the large tube in the center. His body knows where it's going.

He sits in the chair sat next to the tube as his eyes scan over the metal. " _CA-02_ " is printed near the small window at the top. He gets the feeling the letters are wrong, that they should be something else before his eyes land on blonde hair and a pale face barely visible through the frosted glass. He doesn't know who this body ( _man?_ ) is, all he knows is that this is where he's supposed to be, that this is _his_.

H sets the metal of his hand lightly on top of the glass, shielding the only vulnerable point of the tube away from the light overhead and the men stationed around the perimeter of the room, from the eyes looking inside the square window in the door.

He glances up and his own lock with the body’s ( _hers?_ ) before she darts away in a brief flare of red. He feels a niggle of something, another pull before some of the frozen smoke drifts lightly across his hair and face and his eyes drift back to the metal tube’s window - the letters, the window - metal fingers curling slightly, protectively. He doesn't know this man, and as cold and dark as it is in this room he feels an unfamiliar and familiar warmth soothe the anger in his chest.

There's an impression of sunlight that darts through his mind - there one second and gone the next - and that English word whispers out of his mouth on a breath, strength not lost in its faintness.

" _ **Mine**_."

He is The Winter Soldier and he is a ghost, and this is the man that he haunts.


	3. Wipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. The thoughts wouldn't leave me alone and naturally came to mind right when I was going to get in bed. 
> 
> Also these won't all be in chronological order. This chapter mostly happens before the other two until the last bits.  
> And I don't have a beta and tend to just quickly look these over for spelling before posting.

The first time they try to wake him, The Winter Soldier is in the room with them. They get as far as the Captain being conscious, saying, " _Bucky_ ," in a faint, shuttering whimper before The Winter Soldier tears the room apart. His metal hand rips out throats and gouges out eyes, his flesh and blood limbs bend and snap and tear at everything else. Everyone but them in the room is dead in a matter of minutes: three scientists, five soldiers, a slew of equipment. There's red all over.

The Winter Soldier- Bucky- gets as far as walking over to the tube, wiping away the only drop of blood to reach the Captain, to land on a freezing cheek, before he's tranqued and taken down.

No one ever made a sound aside from the short, stuttering breaths of a frozen man with blonde hair.

\--

The second time they try to wake the Captain, The Winter Soldier is not in the room. He's standing outside the door.

They get as far as strapping the blonde man into the chair, sedated and, futile, but attempting to struggle. It goes like clockwork, until he screams.

They lose many more men that day, they need to put a new door in, and the chair needs to be rebuilt.

\--

They never get to try a third time - not the same men, not the same organization. Systems collapse, the world changes in so much as it stays the same, and both soldiers are laid to sleep.

No one knows if they dream - very few care if it's possible. No one wonders if they might even have the same dream - falling, always falling.

They do.

Somewhere, a red haired woman is having a dream of her own, of blue-grey eyes and blonde, of a ghost haunting sunlight.


	4. They tell him-

They tell him it is 1953, and he’s going to kill an Ambassador of peace, make it look like the other side killed him on purpose so they can sabotage the peace talks and start a war.

He listens to them when they tell him this, but it means nothing. He will follow his orders.

His owner had been smoking a cigar as he watched him strapped to the chair, after the orders, after the mission, after the kill. He can no longer remember what a cigarette felt like between his own lips, how the smoke curled down into his lungs.

He feels a pang of loss before he forgets to feel even that.

\--

They tell him it is 1963, and there's sunlight on his face.

He's crouched on a rooftop with his scope fixed on a procession on a faraway road. They tell him there's a leader ( _President_ ) that needs to be removed.

He's mostly out of sight around the corner of the door that opens out onto the roof, propped open for a quick escape.

He gets a flash of something: lying on a rooftop next to someone in the summer heat, gets a brief feeling of loss before he forgets it entirely. He focuses and takes the shot.

The door's already closing behind him when he hears the screams in the distance.

\--

They tell him it is 1979, and he needs to kill a politician.

He's not alone this time. There's a young woman with him, hair like fire and eyes like steel. He's taken note that she has difficulty looking at him for extended periods of time, but that she hides her discomfort well. She feels almost familiar as they move close to the walls in the night, like she's been at his side before. He doesn't remember or feel much now, everything's dulled and unnecessary to the mission.

She feels dangerous because she makes him feel, but they get the mission done flawlessly.

Just before they're extracted, she looks him in the eye. He sees something in them that he no longer knows the word for, but for an instant he feels soft flesh against his own, warm breath against his ear, and her voice soft and sweet as she says a ( _his?_ ) name.

He punches one of their agents before they sedate him.

They've become more prepared to deal with his increasingly rare outbursts.

The last thing he sees before his eyes close are hers, a sadness he wishes he could remove, deep in them like an unending well, before they take him to the chair and make him forget that, too.

He doesn't see her again for a long time after that.

\--

They tell him it is 1987, and someone needs to die. He does not care about their rank, only needs to know enough about the target to identify them.

They tell him he will be working with another partner ( _another? He does not remember ever working with a partner._ _It does not matter_ ). The men who tell him this are nervous, he notes in passing.

His partner is taller than he is by approximately two inches, carries himself like a soldier with a heavy weight on his shoulders. He has blonde hair that reflects every source of light that hits it and blue eyes that hold everything and nothing.

He has the brief thought that he would like to drown in his partner’s eyes and then they are moving, running stealthily from shadow to shadow, and he no longer has time to think of anything but the mission.

It is raining while they pursue the woman with red hair ( _Black Widow_ ) and the man with the bow ( _Unknown_ ). He feels nothing when he looks at her ( _his flesh and blood hand clenches around the gun in his hand_ ).

Him and his partner don't need to speak as they move, or coordinate. He and The Soldier move in tandem like flowing water, like they've done this all their lives when this is the first time they've met ( _isn’t it?_ ).

The woman fires a shot off before her and the man leap over a bridge, both soldiers pausing at the ledge, muscles coiled to jump but both simultaneously frozen on the precipice. It's a long drop.

There's so much water at the bottom.

The Soldier is shaking even as his face remains impassive, staring at the jet that takes their targets away. The Winter Soldier looks over at The Soldier after a moment before his blue-gray eyes dart down to his own flesh and blood shoulder, slowly moving his hand up to cover the small flow of red with a metal palm.

He took a bullet for The Soldier.

The Soldier stares at him.

They're both shaking.

(They still are when they're both led to the chair).

\--

They tell him it is 1991, and that he will be observing. He's working with a blonde man this time, hair catching sunlight and reflecting it back like it's gold. His eyes are blue, and when they look at him The Winter Soldier’s mind and body feel so _heavy_.

They lie on the ground out of sight, The Soldier with a rifle to his shoulder and his attention focused through a scope. The Winter Soldier looks at him when his attention is elsewhere, even though he feels (wants?) that attention on himself. ( _The Soldier looks at him too when he thinks The Winter Soldier isn't looking. He's always looking_.)

The car is about to curve around the bend when he catches the bare whisper of The Soldier breathing out, giving the trigger the slightest squeeze as he does.

The bullet hits its mark and the car goes over the edge.

The sound of the faint explosion at the bottom of the cliff makes them both tense at the same time and then they do finally look at each other. It feels like guilt and it feels like loss, and he's pretty sure their eyes are the same, now.

(He's the first to go into the chair, so he doesn't hear The Soldier mumble while there's electricity gliding through his brain.)

\--

The Soldier knows more than he says sometimes, feels more than he thinks they want him to.

He's partnered with another soldier for what feels like the first and thousandth time, The Winter Soldier’s eyes a blue-grey.

The Soldier’s fingers twitch briefly.

He wants a pencil and paper, but he doesn't ask because he knows they won't give them to him.

His missions don’t involve art.

(He’ll be punished if he asks).

The Winter Soldier makes him feel both small and large, and he wants to cut the man's hair. The length looks strange on him but he doesn't know why. ( _A brief flash of lips turned up and smiling eyes, short hair and a cocky smile_ \- )

The red that pours out of the man from the bullet feels wrong, and the gazes he feels make the hair on the back if his neck stand on end and like his body temperature runs even warmer than usual. His blue-gray eyes make him feel strength, and they make him feel guilt.

He tells the men and scientists none if this, a small plant forcing it's way through cracks in the ice before the chair rips it out, and he wants to keep it as long as he can, knows somewhere deep down inside himself that he won't have it for long.

The bullet flies from his gun towards a speeding car and he feels...something. He doesn't remember what the feeling is called until he's waiting for his turn to use the chair. It helps distract him from the screams ( _and they’ve sedated him already after he came in. He vaguely remembers within the haze of drugs that he painted the console red the last time they made him listen without them, the last time they made Bucky scream_ \- Who's Bucky?). He only identifies it just before the chair starts up, a deeper guilt, pain. A name. (" _Fondue is just cheese and bread my friend_.")

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

_Howard._

When it's his turn, the electricity takes it all away in a flash of white.


	5. S.H.I.E.L.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, I'll most likely be editing the chapters right after I submit them. It's easier to type the chapter up on AO3 because of the format what not and I don’t really have a great working computer so I'm typing it on my tablet which spells trouble for my spelling (ha) because the keyboard is smaller than I'm used to. Just letting you all know.

She left the Red Room a while ago. She could tell you how many days ( _1,095_ ), if she was keeping track.

Thing is, she didn't exactly leave the business. But it's more than that. She lies and steals and kills because it's _all_ she knows, because she's good at it. She doesn't know what to do with freedom, the freedom that she's stolen for herself, or at least as close to freedom as she's going to get.

The problem is that, subtle as she is, she's still gotten on more than one group's radar, and that's dangerous. She's not sure if she's relieved or if she should be more cautious. In the end, it doesn't matter, one of them still finds her.

She's just finished a job for a particularly nasty client when she tunes into the fact that she's being followed. She subtly increases the pace of her steps down the alley. If she just makes the street at the end, she can blend in with the crowd and give herself a moment to think.

A sound catches her ear and she dodges purely on reflex, feathers whizzing past her cheek scant centimeters away.

She's already running into the nearest building as the arrow embeds itself into the wall.

She runs up the stairs two at a time, wig fluttering discarded behind her as she reaches and shoves open the door to the roof. She can hear footsteps following, but they're light. Whoever's following her is good.

She dodges another arrow as she nears the edge of the roof, leaping off of it and sailing over the short gap between buildings, tucking and rolling as she lands on the next one and unholstering two of her guns.

She spins in a crouch and swiftly takes aim, only to came face to face with the sharp steel tip of an arrow. She doesn't lower her guns.

There's a moment of breaths as they size each other up.

The man is young, but physically close to her in age, blue eyes and short blond hair. She's not surprised she doesn't recognize him, but his choice of weapon says more than his words ever could.

"Aren't you gonna ask?"

He sounds more curious than anything, but his aim doesn't waver.

"Hawkeye of S.H.I.E.L.D." she responds calmly. She catches the slight surprise before his features shift subtly, going a little smug.

"Well I must be good if _you've_ heard of me."

She doesn't let out an inelegant snort, but for a fraction of a second, it's tempting.

"Not many people use a bow," she replies, voice even, "Given which organizations are after me, it's not difficult to narrow it down."

His expression turns a little pleased for a moment before it’s shifting back to serious. She can't think of a way out of this without injury, and given who her current hunter is, she's not even sure she'll be able to move fast enough before getting an arrow in some part of her face. That would make her job just a little more difficult.

They're both silent for a long, considering but tense moment, and she can tell he's partly listening to whoever is talking into his earpiece, a slight crease between his brows. He's still not distracted enough, though.

He doesn't lower his bow, but something in his expression seems to shift.

"You're good at what you do," he says, and she knows this already, "Why not come work for S.H.I.E.L.D.? All employees start off with dental."

It's teasing, but he's obviously serious, too.

She stares at him, processing. She knows he's serious, but there's so very many factors to consider.

"Look," he starts again, voice calm, still focused, but there's an earnestness there, now, "I read your file, or at least what we know about you, and you're damn good at what you do, but even that won't be enough to survive what's coming for you. You're too far up the creek."

She tenses, just the slightest, but it's enough for him to understand that _she_ understands.

"I'm just saying,” he continues, “Out of the few options you have left, S.H.I.E.L.D. is your best bet."

It's not a question, it doesn't need to be, and now that it _is_ an option it _is_ her best bet.

"Besides," he starts again, catching her attention, "I'd love to see which of us is the better shot."

He smiles at her, something small and cocksure, and she finds her own lips wanting to twitch up in response.

She doesn't allow it, but she does take the moment he's giving her to think.

She _is_ hunted now, and she's got a safehouse or two, but it's not enough, it's not anywhere _near_ enough. She needs something bigger to hide under, something with enough backing to keep her alive if she wants. Does she want it? She'd be trading one master for another, lose this freedom wrapped tight around her neck, but what other options are there?

She lowers her guns slowly with a nod and a, "Yes," and he lowers his bow, smile spreading just the smallest bit. It may be one of the most honest things she's seen in a long time.

They're both heading for the roof door of the building when she sees it out of the corner of her eye, and Clint (" _Agent Barton. Call me Clint_ ") must see it too because they're both dropping at the same time, narrowly avoiding getting hit in the head with-

" _Is that a shield?_ "

Did she say that out loud?

" _The hell?_ " she hears Clint mutter back as they pick themselves up, quickly turning to follow its trajectory as it rebounds off a pillar of metal and heads back towards wherever it came from.

There's two of them, and they're both still moving towards them as one of them catches the shield, silver with a red star in the middle. They're both wearing masks and goggles to cover their faces, but she doesn't need them off to recognize one of them.

Her heart rate kicks up and she grabs Clint's hand. He only tenses for a moment before they take off, running across the roof and hopping over to the next one.

" _WHO ARE THEY?_ " he yells as they leap between another set of roofs. They're going to run out of them soon. " _AND WHO THE HELL FIGHTS WITH A SHIELD? YOU'D THINK HE THOUGHT HE WAS CAPTAIN AMERICA OR SOMETHING!_ "

The voice in his earpiece must say something because he manages to crack a grin before saying, " _I KNOW! TOO BAD HE'S NOT ON OUR SIDE! YOU COULD FANBOY OVER CAPTAIN AMERICA TOGETHER!_ " Which would only make sense for him to say in one other context (and she doesn’t think he’s mentally unstable, at least not that far).

She decides to ignore the one sided conversation as she slides down the ladder of a fire escape, Clint breezing down behind her and then they're taking off down the alley and into a backstreet.

" _THEY'RE NO ONE WE'RE CAPABLE OF HANDLING!_ " she yells back, glancing up at the roof to her left before pulling Clint with her down a street to her right, bullets embedding in the corner of the building just past where his head was.

He only responds with, " _WELL AT LEAST **ONE** OF THEM FIGHTS LIKE A NORMAL PERSON_ ," though she can tell he wants to disagree with her statement about being able to handle them.

He pulls ahead of her with a, " _THIS WAY_ ," taking the lead as they round another corner and leading them towards a bridge up ahead, " _TIME TO CATCH OUR RIDE_ ," he adds with a grin. She hears the shield rebound hard off of a wall too close to her left, close enough that she felt the air current shift near her arm.

It's deserted in this part of town so the bridge up ahead is clear. She doesn't hesitate in jumping over the railing with him (she won't escape if this fails anyway) pulling off her fur coat and tossing it behind her to obscure them for a brief moment as she fires off a couple shots - a distraction.

She hears return shots go through the coat as they drop and land on speeding metal, looking back once as they crawl inside the jet through a roof hatch.

"Who the hell were they?" Clint asks again once they're both inside, heading over to talk to a man standing near the cockpit area. He looks unassuming, which means he's far more dangerous than she's supposed to think he is.

"The Winter Soldier. I don’t know the other one," she replies calmly, though that's not entirely true. Clint's eyes widen before he lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair. He looks a little spooked; he looks a little excited.

Clint knows of him.

It's hard not to, whether you believe he exists or not.

She remembers him, her _James_ , and she remembers the Winter Soldier standing guard over blonde. The same blonde on the other one. She doesn't know what to think about that, only that she owes one a debt and wishes she never had to see him again. Her hands are shaking.

The unassuming man comes over, having taken a moment to talk to Clint while she took a moment to think, a moment to collect herself. He's quiet, stealthier than she thought, too.

"Ms. Romanov, my name is Phil Coulson," he says as he holds out a hand, "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D."

Her hands no longer shake as she reaches up one to take his.


	6. Strands

He's in a safehouse in New York after a mission he failed to complete and they'll come for him soon. He's in a safehouse in New York, and he’s alone.

He's in a safehouse in New York and it's raining. 

He can hear the water bouncing off metal, a thousand droplets of chimes and bells and the occasional draft of wind.

He's sitting to the side of a window, temple resting against the old wood frame, paint cracked and flaking from age, and cold cement beneath him.

He's always cold, as much as he can remember, that's been a constant, so it doesn't bother him. He doesn't know if it ever did.

There's an impression of his lungs seizing and cold air sucked in, so maybe him and the cold didn't get along at some point.

He pushes the feeling aside.

People are walking on the ground four stories below, umbrellas bobbing along at varying paces, those without scurrying or hiding like rodents. His fingers twitch for some charcoal.

He's keeping his breath shallow and controlled and his face tilted slightly so he doesn't fog the glass, an unfamiliar voice in his head telling him he can't leave a trace ( _"You're a ghost. You don't exist. No one must ever know you were anywhere."_ ) It makes him want to recoil from himself, but he brushes that aside, too.

He wishes he could sit in front of the window and draw without having to worry about other snipers or being seen ( _a salute to a vaguely familiar figure laying up high on some rocks_ ), but he knows that will never happen. 

Three kids walk down below, younger than him, younger than he remembers ever being. They're laughing as they push at each other and one jumps in a forming puddle, throwing his hands up. He wants to know what that feels like, whatever causes them to laugh, to smile. Maybe if he tries to himself-

He pulls his lips up slightly.

It feels weird. 

He's not sure if he's doing it right.

He turns his head to the side to ask his companion, but there's no one there ( _who was he looking for?_ ) He's alone. But he's always been alone, hasn't he? It feels weird too, like there's supposed to be someone on his left ( _or his right_ ), but he can't remember who. There's a flash of brown and silver, lips smiling one moment and then flat the next. A flesh arm and then metal and a red star.

His head head hurts.

He digs his fingers into his hair ( _when did he move his hand?_ ) and it feels too long ( _was it ever short?_ )

His head aches.

His fingers clench.

There's a flicker of something, just within his grasp- But then the door is bursting open and there's two darts hitting the side of his neck. He forgot to turn his coat neck up.

He can hear footsteps slowly approaching as he slumps further into the wall, hand dropping down to land on the shield at his side as the chemicals take effect. 

He looks down at it as his vision starts to go black, fingertips tracing over a red star. He sees a man in his mind, only a little older now than he thinks he should be, hair longer than it was. He wants to run his fingers through it, see if it's longer than his.

Just before he loses consciousness, he finds the word for that something he felt and his lips twitch up of their own accord. He didn't have to make them.

It was 'warmth'.


	7. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't going to post this yet because it's in the future and they're at Avengers Tower but I was listening to the radio earlier and Team by Lorde came on and the lyrics reminded me of them and this whole scene popped up and wouldn't leave me alone SO YEAH. Brief moment in the future. Don't worry this story won't end miserably I just have to get them to work through all the angst.
> 
> And whoa added a whole 'nother section to the bottom okay then.

He hears two quiet laughs and music from further up the hall he's walking on. It's coming from the living room in the tower.

There's voices, too. Smiles in their words. It takes him a second to realize the voices are speaking in English.

"No, you move your hips in rotation. No, no, like this-"

He stops quietly at the corner and watches.

Natasha's standing behind Bucky, who's got his hair pulled back in a low ponytail, and she's got her hands gripping his hips, trying to get them to move in circular motions with hers. He's a little stiff, but she's managing to get him to move in time with the beats of the music. 

What surprises Steve, though, is that they're both smiling, even if it's smaller compared to most people's. He knows for them it's practically grinning. For him it'd be close to laughing.

"You're too stiff, James," Natasha scolds as she smacks a palm to one of Bucky's hips, short but firm, trying to school her expression to stern but her smile won't quite obey.

"I haven't danced like this in years, and certainly not to this music, give me a break," Bucky tries to scowl, but his own smile won't obey either.

"Excuses James, and they're futile on me," Natasha replies. The song changes.

Steve catalogs it even though he's not giving it much attention, he's hard wired to.

They're starting to laugh again when the song's words register like a kick to his stomach.

 

_"Dancin' around the lies we tell, dancin' around big eyes as well, even the comatose they don’t dance and tell"_

 

Unconsciously, his hands curl into fists.

 

_"We live in cities you'll never see on screen, not very pretty but we sure know how to run things, living in ruins of a palace within my dreams, and you know we're on each other's team"_

 

His blood's pounding in his ears.

 

_"I'm kind of over getting told to throw my hands up in the air, so there"_

 

Natasha catches his eye but she doesn't falter, just keeps moving them both to the beat. Steve's afraid she can see him cracking at the edges.

 

_"So all the cups got broke shards beneath our feet but it wasn't my fault"_

 

James (Bucky) catches his eye. He does falter.

 

_"And everyone's competing for a love they won't receive, 'cause what this palace wants is release"_

 

Steve can't breathe.

James stops dancing and starts to disentangle himself from Natasha, and she backs up to give him his space. She understands more than anyone.

 

_I'm kind of over getting told to throw my hands up in there air, so there, I'm kind of older than I was when I revelled without a care, so there"_

 

James (Bucky) takes a couple steps towards him, the broken thing behind his eyes visible. It hurts to see it, it hurts himself to know part of him is glad it's there. They're both so broken, and he knows it's selfish that he's glad he's not alone in that. 

Bucky raises his hand slightly as he takes another step, but Steve shakes his head slightly and takes a short step back. They both stop.

Bucky looks like he's going to say something before he closes his mouth again, something old in the edges if his eyes.

Steve’s not sure what his face looks like, blank, like it usually is, or equally as old and tired, but he quietly takes a few steps back into the dark of the hallway and turns around, heading back to his floor, his room. His fists are still clenched. 

This is why they never spend much time around each other. There's so much between them, neither are sure how to cross the divide and neither could survive the fall if they missed. But they're both twisted so far up into each other that they're not really sure where one begins and the other ends anymore. 

He should never have gone up there. He knows he'll have to because it's unavoidable. It's not that he doesn't want to see Bucky (James), because he does. Most of the time that's all he wants. But they both remind each other of everything they remember and it hurts them both, hurts him because Bucky (James) remembers more than he does, was awake longer, is hurt more when Steve is around and Steve can't handle it. He can't hurt Bucky like that. Not after everything. Their jagged edges cut each other more harshly the closer they get. They can't touch without war and violence blossoming under their skin like razors and fireworks all mashed into one and going off in an explosion.

Steve closes his door once he gets into his room and leans his back heavily against it, the material of his blue, long sleeved shirt suddenly feeling too soft against his skin and dark jeans suddenly feeling too rough. He presses his fingers back against the door, head down, the reinforced metal not giving under the pressure. The cold of it grounds him.

He wishes they could go dancing, but his wishes always come with a heavy price, they always have. 

He doesn't cry, there are no tears, he's not even sure if he can anymore. 

They are both of them so broken.

 --

They both watch silently as Steve goes, Bucky's hands clenching and unclenching while Natasha takes a moment before touching his forearm gently in reassurance. 

"It will take time. For both of you." Her words are soft but not deceptively so. She's being honest. 

He just gives a short nod of his head, giving himself a few seconds to wipe his flesh palm down his face before looking over at her.

She doesn't say anything, just lets him gather himself back together. 

"I wish- No. I want-" Bucky stops himself, looking back at the place where Steve stood. He doesn't think he can even find the words for it, thinks they might not exist.

But she knows, his Natalia. It's not the same with her, it never has been, but she understands enough. They've never needed words to talk to one another, much like him and Steve. Maybe that's partly why they get along so well.

She gives his arm a gentle squeeze before slipping back behind him, setting warm hands back on his hips. "Now, again," she says, giving his hips a little nudge before they're moving again.

They're moving slower even though the music isn't, and after a minute she's resting her chin on his shoulder, her form melting against his. He loves her in a way he doesn't love Steve. She's fire and she burns him to the touch most of the time. She's not ice and shards of glass. And sometimes, she's warm embers, soothing his jagged edges enough to help rebuild himself enough to keep going, and it's times like these that he's so grateful he can't even begin to express it in any of the number of languages he knows. He wishes he could give this to Steve, this understanding, but they're both glaciers grinding against each other when they're not in a battle or in a war. They don't know how to occupy the same space when there's peace and quiet, no longer know how to love without tearing each other apart.

But he wants to learn how to again, so maybe then they can both be warm. Maybe then, Steve will be able to smile with him and their fucked up lives will finally be able to fit together without cutting each other up. That's when he'll take Steve dancing.


	8. Spar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meeting the Avengers in Chapter 10.
> 
> Um. Much as I wish I knew more I only know like two words of Russian and that's "yes" and "no" and google translate is worrisome and I know no one who knows Russian, I'm doing that thing where I say, "and they said in Russian." So. Yes. Sorry. I wish I could type it in Russian.

_"Again!"_

The Soldier hurls his shield across the room towards his target at the order, already moving out of the way of the bullet that would have embedded itself into his shoulder. He tucks and rolls before coming back up to catch the ( _his? His_ ) shield, bringing it up to block more gunfire as he charges at his target. He's about to flip over his target before his target beats him to it, doing the flip he would have done and catching him in the arm with a knife mid-spin before The Soldier can block it.

He blocks out the pain. The cold is all he can feel anymore.

He brings his shield up, this time catching his target as soon as he lands and shoving him with it hard enough to send him sprawling ten feet back. The Winter Soldier rolls with it and then he's up, firing at The Soldier.

It feels wrong.

\--

A rib is broken and another is cracked. He's still trying to get his breathing under control from the shield hitting his abdomen and forcing all of the air out of his lungs. He fires, but it feels wrong. He can see the blood from here through the goggles covering his eyes, a small, steady stream of red on a black sleeve. He put it there.

It feels wrong.

The Winter Soldier dodges left as the shield is hurled at him again, tucking and rolling right to avoid it's return trajectory after it bounces off of the wall that was behind him. It's all silver except for the red star in the middle. It matches his arm.

It feels wrong.

The gun clicks, empty, and he throws it to the side, pulling his second knife out of the second holster crossed on his lower back and holding both up in defense. He runs at The Soldier. Of all things, he gets the ridiculous urge to cut his target's hair; it's too long.

It feels _wrong_.

\--

The Soldier aims his shield up, blocking the down swing of one of the knives as he brings his right fist up in a swing of his own, aiming for the cracked ribs he can hear grinding together in The Winter Soldier's ribcage. The Winter Soldier dodges to the left. He's oddly...grateful.

His target sends a kick towards his knee that he doesn't block, ignoring the pain that shoots up from the resounding crack and using the drop to the mat to duck under and up into the resulting opening, wrapping arms around The Winter Soldier's waist and taking him down to the side with him. The Winter Soldier almost looks shocked beneath the goggles. At what, he doesn't know.

\--

They both go down with a thud - they're both heavy, heavier than he thinks they're supposed to be ( _ninety pounds of body and an infinity of strength- his arm around that bony shoulder wishing he could be that good of a person_ \- ) and he wipes the shock from his face, focusing on the struggle. His target is trying to grip his wrists and hold him down but he twists, one hand going to The Soldier's arm, digging his finger into the bullet hole while the other goes to his waist. The man is stronger than him, he needs to move.

The Soldier gives a shudder at the finger wedged into his wound and it's just enough for him to flip them, digging the finger of his right hand further into the bullet hole before lashing up with his left (metal, cold, _alien_ \- ) to punch him in the face. The goggle lens crack under the onslaught, once, twice, three times before he grips the man's neck and _squeezes_.

The man chokes.

_It feels wrong._

\--

He can't breathe. There's a numb pain in his arm and he didn't think he could feel fear anymore but he can't stop it from shooting up his spine ( _he's small and his lungs are constricting and **he can't breathe**_ \- ) and he lashes out, nothing like his training, grabs onto something and _pulls_ -

\--

His goggles come off in a wild grab and it shocks him enough to refocus but he doesn't stop his constriction of The Soldier's throat. He blinks once at the sudden change in amount of light and his eyes shift up from his grip to the Soldier's goggles, spying blue through a hole in one of the larger cracks. He moves his right hand without thinking, yanking his blood stained his finger out of the bullet hole and grabbing at the man's goggles and ripping them off, leaving a smear of red down The Soldier's forehead and close to his nose. Grey-blue meets sky blue and they both stop.

There's someone yelling in Russian but it sounds low and far away and he can't focus because he _knows this man_ -

"...Bucky?"

Both of their heads are pounding.

"Who the hell is-"

A short, sharp command word in Russian and they're both collapsing, the world going black.

\--

Muffled words.

_"..-uldn't have happened, we cleared everything-"_

_"..-not enough. We need them to be capable of working on the same mission-"_

_"..-an't risk-"_

_"..-again."_

He tries to move but his arms are stuck. He tries to test his restraints and a pain shoots up his leg and right arm-

_"Wipe him."_

The fear shoots up his spine again and he pulls harder, eyes darting around-

There, leaned against the wall on the floor to his left. " _ **Bucky**_ -"

The movement in the room freezes for a brief moment then restarts in a flurry of motion, but he can't focus on that because _Bucky's_ right there and his arm burns and his leg is on fire but _Bucky's right there_ and he's _lifting his head_ -

He feels warmth for the first time in years that doesn't feel like freezer burn before it's ripped away from him again-

\--

The chair angles back as Bucky's head lifts, eyes swimming briefly before locking onto blue and-

(" _ **I had'im on the ropes**_.")

The hum of electricity-

He tries to get up (his body's still sluggish) and he tries to move his hands but they're bound. He tries to pull the restraints apart but _they won't give_ -

 _Screaming_ -

It drowns out his shout of a name he hasn't remembered in years.

\--

The next time they meet, it's on a mission. The Winter Soldier has twenty kills completed and The Soldier has eighteen. They don't know each other and they don't talk. Their mission is completed without error or disruption.

But they sit closer to each other than they need to when they're alone in a room, in the apartment they were given as a hideout. 

The edges of their boots touch when they're both lying on a roof to snipe two different targets from two different angles at the same time. 

They move around each other like they've done it a million times, shifting around one another like water and guarding each other's backs, the backs of their hands touching for the slightest of moments when they pass. 

They're weapons, they're not meant for anything more, but the longer they're around each other, the more the ice starts to crack, the more it starts to melt enough to feel the tiniest sliver of warmth curling up in a wisp from underneath the freeze.

They train together between missions sometimes and every time it is violent, blood on the walls and scars added to their growing collection. The Winter Soldier is the only one strong enough who _can_ leave scars on The Soldier. They tear at each other like wolves, so viciously that even their handlers are uncomfortable with it, using shield and gun and knife, hands and feet and nails and _teeth_. They're raw in their intensity, and have to be shut down more often than not because they won't _stop_. It's the only way they can show at all how they feel.

But their missions go flawlessly. It's only the once or twice deviation when they're on their own that's the defect. They both venture to New York once at separate times, The Winter Soldier after a kill and The Soldier forgoing the kill entirely ( _failure_ ). They're brought back and wiped, and they sleep. They work well on their own, but they work even better together and it's always a risk. They're only awoken when it's needed, and only work together when the risk is worth it.

Afterwards, they always sleep.

\--

Five halls away there's a woman walking down a hall, she has red hair and never an honest smile. She's twenty-three and she's leaving tonight. She has a report to hand in.


	9. Heart

They're on a mission together, the third one since they took him from her, and they're in a dance hall surrounded by people covered in wealth and masks of polite smiles to cover their greedy eyes. They work well together, but that was never the problem.

She's dancing with an older man, he sits on the council they're trying to kill the leader of and he won't stop roving his eyes down her body. The dress is red and long and sleek, hugs her form like a glove and leaves little to the imagination while still maintaining taste and radiating elegance. It was child's play planting the listening device on him. She was done almost as soon as she had started.

James, The Winter Soldier, is posed as a waiter, delivering drinks with just the right amount of subservience and anonymity to be forgettable - he could have been doing this his whole life. The poison's hidden in the outermost cuff on his jacket and he's heading for the council leader. She doesn't need to watch him but she divides her attention anyway, keeping enough focus on her unknowing informant to keep him distracted (it doesn't take much) and the rest on James. He's flawless.

She sees him slip the poison into the champagne as he does a turn, spinning away from the dancing masses as he continues moving forward to avoid a conversing couple as they pass him by, all fluid movement and sharp lines. You wouldn't even be able to catch the slip on a camera unless you were really looking for it.

He angles the tray just right to limit the odds of the council head choosing a different wine glass and the man takes the drink, golden death slipping past his lips as he smiles at his wife. The two share a kiss and they'll both die. Acceptable collateral damage. Their mission is finished.

She releases herself from her ogling dance partner and slips into the crowd like fluid, ignoring the older man's rushed words and moving seamlessly towards the open balcony, grabbing the long, black coat The Winter Soldier left there out of the darkness of a wall to wrap herself in and reaching the railing at the same time as her partner. He hooks the five inch ring that has been hidden behind a detachable pocket on the inner part of his jacket around the railing, holding the attached handled end with his gloved left hand and looping his right arm around her waist. It's clinical, there's nothing in it but the mission, and they topple over like birds sweeping down from a tree to loop back up into flight, the metal line uncoiling from inside the ring and slowing their descent as they near the ground. The red of her hair and dress flutter briefly in the dance hall's light, catching the gold and lighting it up in seconds of flame. It's a small thing, but sometimes it's the small things that cause a landslide, and that fire could signal their getting caught and their end. It wouldn't be so bad except for all of the ways that it would.

They drop lightly to the ground but his knees wobble and it has nothing to do with the hundred foot drop. He looks at her with recognition for the first time in years and with something that makes her heart clench but she keeps it from showing on her face.

 _"...Natalia? What-"_ he starts in Russian, quiet confusion in his voice, but she's pulling him into the crowd and his programming kicks in, stumbling once before he's moving just as fluidly as she is, blending in with their surroundings. The only sign that he still remembers whatever he has is the hard squeeze he gives one of her hands on his arm, her other looped through his elbow like a partner, his arm looped around her waist like a lover. It hurts more than she thought it would. She thought she'd fortified herself against this possibility better.

They turn down an alley off of the crowded street, murmurings already starting about the death of a leader, and he pulls her in towards the end of the alley before forcefully moving them both into the shadows, gripping tight. She goes willingly.

" _Natalia, what are we- why are you-_ Fuck," he cuts off in English. It's the second time she's been surprised tonight. "Why does my head hurt?"

He's lowered his head in all this, right hand releasing his grip on her arm and pressing fingers into the side of his head, dragging strands out of the low pony tail resting at the back of his neck.

" _James,"_ she tries in Russian. Nothing. " _James,_ " she tries in English.

His head snaps up, eyes locking with hers. She doesn't want to acknowledge that she's missed this.

"We're on a mission in Russia. We've worked together before. Do you remember?" she asks. She's always been indifferent towards English, but she knows it. She keeps her voice calm and soft, but she's gauging his reaction like a hawk.

"I-" he stops, glancing down at the ground then shifting his gaze to the left, looking up at the pedestrians passing by on the street at the other end of the alley. He replies in Russian.  _"...I remember fire. I remember a hospital. I remember **you**."_

Her heart clenches again for a different reason but she forces herself to focus. " _James._ " He looks at her again, and he looks vulnerable in a way she hasn't seen in so long, but he holds himself like a steel wall, unbreakable (but she knows the truth of it). They don't have time. She brings a hand up and settles it gently on his cheek. His left arm squeezes her again briefly before loosening, holding her like she's precious instead of like she's trying to escape. _"There's no time. I'm leaving in two days. Will you come with me?"_

" _Natalia..._ "

It's wistful. He remembers more than she thought he did.

He lowers his right hand from the grip on his head to cup her cheek in return, the flesh of his palm warm and a sharp contrast from the cold seeping through the sleeve of her coat from the metal of his left. He hasn't been gentle with her in so long.

Something solidifies in his eyes, something not quite the The Winter Soldier she knows, but maybe more James, and she knows what he's going to say before he says it. He shakes his head slightly, eyes remaining fixed on hers, but there's a longing there meant just for her.

"I can't," he says, English again, voice soft. She can hear the longing in it, too. "There's something I have to- There's something I need to go back to. Something that calls me. I don't know what it is, but I can't leave it there."

She sees a large, metal tube in her mind's eye, hears a man scream. She doesn't know what, _who_ it is, but she knows enough.

She nods just enough to show she heard him, leans forward the short distance to press her lips lightly to his to show she understands, and their eyes close for just one vulnerable moment.

They lean away from each other and let go of one another at the same time, pulling their masks back into place. By mutual understanding, they walk the rest of the way down their end of the alley and around the corner, arms linked and around each other again before they re-enter anyone's sight. They're still working, but if his arm is more gentle around her waist - if their fingers find each other and link more out of feeling than a cover, no one is the wiser and they're not about to tell.

She knows he wants to go but she knows he can't. He knows she wants him to go and knows that she knows that he can't. It's a bittersweet feeling, something they're both used to, especially when he can remember enough of their times together.

They meet up with their handlers at the extraction point and pull away from each other like they always do. Their masks are in place as they sit on opposite sides of the plane. They don't look at each other and no one is the wiser, but her heart hurts more than she wants to admit and he's got a headache the size of the continent, full of jumbled memories trying to burst out of their cages.

They get through the debriefing and giving their reports. When they reach the beginning of the maze of halls, they don't look at each other as they turn away from one another, but his fingers twitch just the slightest amount and her own follow suit in return. It's all they can afford to show in this place that takes away who they are and turns them into what it wants them to be.

Two days, she thinks to herself, it will be worth it. Her need for survival has always been strong.

When telling herself it's worth it fails, she falls back on that. It's never failed her like her heart.


	10. Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avengerrrrs.
> 
> I want to keep writing but I think I'm getting tired and need a break, I've been working on these all day. Also things might be more linear from this point on, just letting you know.

Aliens in New York. Neither are phased by it, they're not programmed to be. All they see are more potential targets, more potential distractions, another world of war. They're weapons; this they understand.

Their owners want something called the Tesseract, their objective is to get it. The only things standing in their way are S.H.I.E.L.D. and the team called Avengers, consisting of two assassins, an off worlder god, and a green mass of rage led by a man in a suit of metal armor. Their owners thought it best to attack them while they're winded and distracted with the other off worlder god, use the distraction and exhaustion to their advantage and take what they're after. It's not the best timing, but they're not programmed to care. They do as they are told.

They both take aim.

\--

"Okay! So," Tony claps his hands together, radiating far more energy than any of them really have, "Outer space army's taken care of, we get the diva trussed up and we go get shawarma, agreed? Let's go." He starts walking out of the lobby of Stark Tower without waiting for anyone to reply, but they're all too tired to really do any protesting and Clint's growling stomach speaks for all of them, so they follow.

Natasha and Clint are talking quietly amongst themselves, trying to calculate who killed the most Chitauri and arguing over whether taking over one of their flying vehicles counts as extra points, while keeping a subtle eye on Loki, who's being dragged along by Thor, who has Mjolnir hanging ready from the grip of his free hand. Bruce is back down to normal size and walking just to the right of Tony, holding his pants up with his left hand.

Natasha's got a couple cracked ribs and blood dried in a small stream on the side of her face and her bottom lip is busted. Clint's got some bruises of his own and he's out of arrows. Tony's face plate was torn off from when Thor was trying to see if he was alive after the Hulk caught him mid-fall from the closing portal in the sky, and Thor just looks exhausted physically and mentally. Loki's about the same with added cuts and bruises from his run in with the Hulk. Bruce is more or less fine. They're all covered in smudges and dirt though, and they're all tired.

"I'm telling you," Tony's talking to Bruce, "Top ten floors. Besides, after today I think you could use a break. And I've got way more toys than-" He's cut off by an explosion to their right, sending them all flying. The debris nearby from the hollowed out buildings from the attack all going flying with them.

Bruce is suddenly the Hulk whether he wants to be or not, and it's quick enough to cover them from the gun fire, if not most of the debris. The Hulk takes off towards the shooters and he's at least a block away when three hummers come careening from a street up on his left. One of the hummers hits the Hulk straight on and explodes on impact while the other two aim gunfire at him to draw his attention before taking off, leading the Hulk away.

Thor's got a hold of Loki who's already attempted to slip away twice and Clint and Natasha are pulling themselves out from under some of the rubble that has covered them when they landed, Natasha limping and Clint not fairing much better. Tony's suit kept most of the damage to a minimum, but he's still dazed from the blast.

They're all regrouping when there's another blast from nearby, sending them all to the ground again with another spray of rocks and small chunks of debris.

" _Where is it coming from?!_ " Clint shouts out, eyes scanning their surroundings while Natasha gets back up on her feet. Loki's finally managed to slip off and Thor looks torn between going after him and staying.

Tony gives him a look and says, " _Just come back as soon as you can!_ " and Thor's face schools into determination before he takes off after his brother, leaving the three of them to make their way as quickly as they can behind a large mound of rubble for cover. They make it just in time for another blast to send more cement and rocks at their new found fort.

" _Up!_ " Natasha calls out over the sound of falling pavement, " _Building on the right! Roof, one o' clock!_ "

The three of them take turns looking and spot a mound of black up on a roof across the street, metal glinting in the sunlight.

"Do you have anything left working in that suit of yours?" Clint asks Tony, pulling a knife out of his boot and looking past done with the whole situation.

"JARVIS," Tony calls down to his suit, listening to the answer come up from the collar. "Not much," he relays, giving them a slightly worried but forcefully determined look, "I've got some thruster capability and my repulsors are down to fifteen percent."

" _That's it?_ " Clint asks incredulously. Natasha's got two of her own blades out and she's looking over the rubble again.

"We won't be able to take him from here," she cuts off whatever Tony was about to say. He lets out an indignant huff.

"Yeah no kidding," Tony replies, chancing another look himself. Another explosion hits their makeshift barricade and forces him to duck back down.

"Think you can send a shot over there from here with some of what's left?" Clint asks him, checking his person for any other weapons and coming up with a gun from his thigh holster. He clearly doesn't like it as much but he's fully capable of using it.

"Yeah. Distraction?" Tony asks, and Clint nods, sending Natasha a look. She gives her own nod, signalling something to him with her fingers that Tony can't understand. "On three," Tony says, looking up over the rubble one more time for a trajectory check, pulling up short. "Uh guys," he starts, eyes darting around, "He's gone. _Shit_ -" he lets out before he's shoving Clint and Natasha down, metal clanging loudly where their heads just were before all of their eyes dart up. "Is that-" Tony starts.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me-" Clint says at the same time.

Natasha goes pale.

There's a man across the street holding a metal shield outstretched, in the middle of winding his body back like a top before hurling it at them again.

They all move separate directions, breaking up their huddled target. The shield bounces off cement a second time, rebounding back to the man's hand before he starts running at them, firing the gun held in his left.

 _"Oh shit-"_ Clint says emphatically before he lifts himself up off the ground, firing at the man with his own gun while dodging to the left. The shield deflects most of it and Clint gets reflected, grazed bullets to his leg and side for his efforts.

The man gets close and Natasha looks like she's just about to do something stupid, considering her leg, before Tony darts in and uses his repulsors. The shield blocks the blast but it sends the man flying backwards with the force of it, unfortunately landing on his feet instead of his back like Tony wanted.

" _Who the hell is this guy?_ " Tony half yells to them in between orders to JARVIS.

" _The Soldier!_ " Natasha calls back, already running for The Soldier as best as she can, " _Take him alive!_ "

Clint's charging the guy, too, so all Tony can really do is follow. Suspiciously. there's no backup for the man- The Soldier, with the shield, but Tony can't do anything about those thoughts right now.

Tony does most of the hand to hand fighting once they find out The Soldier is stronger than average and broke Clint's forearm when Clint was blocking a punch, the only upside was that he got the gun out of The Soldier's hand with a kick and a cut off, pained yell. Tony's crap at hand to hand, but his suit's holding up for the most part and taking a lot of the damage.

His repulsors are down to two percent.

He doesn't have much time to think between blocking attacks - because who's he kidding, he's not actually landing any of his own between the skill difference and the shield - but he's damn well _trying_.

Tony ends up sprawled on his back with a harsh shove from the shield and The Soldier quickly straddles him. Clint tries to tackle The Soldier from the side but he moves with it enough to bring the force down to manageable, elbowing Clint in the face (who still doesn't let go the tough bastard) while bringing his shield up. Clint stabs a knife into the guy's thigh and he doesn't even flinch.

He's about to bring the shield down on Tony's neck like a shovel on a snake when Natasha manages to get herself wrapped around the guy with more speed than any of them clearly calculated, bringing her Widow's Bites down into the sides of his neck.

He doesn't scream, but his body does convulse before dropping to the side, breathing rapid and shield let go and landing on the ground with a resounding _clang_.

They're all out of breath and Tony has had about enough of near death experiences for one day _thank you very much_.

"Again. Who. _The hell_ -" Tony starts, quickly shoving the guy off of him and scooting back, repulsor raised and aimed at the man, ready to fire at the slightest movement.

"The Soldier," Natasha cuts him off. Clint gives her a look and Tony's really not surprised that they know more than they're saying.

"Whoever he is, lock down, _now,_ " Tony orders, pulling himself up to his feet.

Clint's got a hand on his nose but he uses his free hand to take one of the Soldier's arms, Tony grabbing the other to pull him along, hauling him out.

Natasha bends down to grab the shield, tracing a finger over the red star momentarily once their backs are turned before limping along behind them, an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

\--

They manage to get to the helicarrier without The Soldier waking. Natasha just quirks a brow and says she gave him a heavy dose of electricity. None of them are complaining.

She keeps the shield close to her at all times. Clint says something with his eyes to her and then they're both leaning slightly towards one another. Tony's not touching that one with a ten foot pole.

When they get to the helicarrier, things get a little...complicated.

"Wait. What," is all Tony can say, staring at Fury, but he could have guessed this. He probably actually already knew this when something was niggling at him during their unexpected fight.

"Someone tried to steal the Tesseract from the top of Stark Tower," Nick Fury repeats, looking almost as done with everything as they do, "We managed to apprehend him and get him sedated. He's on route to the Triskelion now. We're taking this one there, too."

'This one' is a getting an I.V. hooked up into his arm. Sedatives to keep him under.

"Who the hell would try _that?_ " Tony asks incredulously, wincing slightly as he tries to spread his arms out, quickly pulling them back in to his sides. That shield isn't made of plastic. "I mean, not just because we just had _aliens_ coming out of the _sky_ , but who would do that with us so close to it? The ones who _stopped_ the aliens coming out of the sky. Who's that stupid?"

He sounds genuinely baffled and Natasha supposes she can't blame him, but she thinks she knows who tried to steal the Tesseract from the Tower, or at least, the operative used ( _Fury's look confirms that she does_ ), and she's not as surprised as she might have been otherwise. It doesn't matter who has them, she knows what the two Soldiers are capable of and she's not surprised that whoever owns them tried to use them now. It's one of the two most opportune moments, and the only surprise is that they managed to capture them both. They must have lacked information. It's the only probable answer. That, or The Soldier was the distraction and The Winter Soldier was the retriever. She doesn't like to think that they got lucky. There's no such thing.

"Who are they? Who is _that_?" Tony demands, pointing at where The Soldier is getting wheeled onto a quinjet, wincing again. The goggles and mask on the Soldier are still firmly in place, and Coulson is carrying the shield as he follows the gurney (lightly, carefully, _reverently_ ).

"He wields that shield like-" Tony cuts off, eyes narrowing before he shakes his head, "But that _can't_ be him. There's no way." Tony does notice that Coulson is following the gurney at a quicker pace than usual. Between that and the shield, he's not sure if he should say something because there's no way that's _him_. His dad talked about the guy all the time and he never said he joined the dark side and became a Sith Lord.

"We don't know their names," Fury draws his attention back, there's a medic or three tending to them while they talk. Clint's nose is no longer gushing blood and his arm's getting temporarily bound, Natasha's leg, too. Tony himself is still in his suit and isn't budging until he knows he's completely safe, glaring nurse or not.

"They go by the codenames Winter Soldier and The Soldier," Fury continues, eye following the quinjet as it leaves the hangar, carrying the shield wielding mystery attacker, "Together they've got over four dozen hits over the past fifty years, and a lot of them aren't even confirmed. They're dangerous. We'll deal with them."

Tony's about to say something to that when Fury gives him a look.

" _We'll deal with them._ "

Tony snaps his mouth closed. He's too tired for this and he just wants to see Pepper, like, three days ago. He's ready to go home.

Doesn't mean he's not going to look into this. If Fury thinks he's keeping his nose out of any of this he's poorly mistaken and clearly doesn't know him that well. He wants to know who tried to kill them.


	11. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh how does one write a Tony.

There's a lot of things that keep Tony from sleeping now. 

When he dreams, he dreams of alien invasions and nuclear bombs and falling, and somewhere in there he dreams of The Soldier. In the grand scheme of things, it seems small, it _is_ small, one extra strong bad guy as opposed to an alien army from outer space led by a god. No contest right? 

It shouldn't even really register, but it does. 

And it's not the fighting, hearing Clint's bone _snap_ like a twig, or even a shield almost turned into a guillotine to separate his precious head from his, let's face it, top notch 'bod.

No, what gets him and what keeps him up at night is how it _felt_. It didn't feel like rage or hate or even sorrow and misery. It didn't feel like the guy had a grudge against him or a need to get him out of the way.

It didn't feel like anything.

And _that's_ what keeps him up at night. There was nothing _there_ to feel. It was blank, a void, a slate, _an emptiness so glaring you could_ -

Point is, there was nothing there, nothing directed at _him_ ; it was like he didn't exist. It was almost like being in a room with his father when he was twelve. 

It was utter indifference.

He can't stand it, so he works, at least until his decryptor is finished rehacking S.H.I.E.L.D's systems. They upped their security since his last hack. How cute.

The decryptor only takes a few hours and he doesn't find anything on file about their new captives until three days later, and all it says is that they're ' _in holding_ '. Tony's willing to bet the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. put _anything_ on file this late in the game means that they know a lot more than they're letting on.

He picks a random set of car keys and heads out. 

He wants answers.

\--

They don't look surprised to see him when he shows up. Fury looks as unimpressed as ever, even with the new tightness around his eye. Hill looks bored, if slightly perturbed, and Tony knows that's not _his_ doing. 

Natasha looks, well...he's not sure how to describe it. He wants to say she looks _drawn_ , tight around the edges, but on her it comes off as a little pissed. Tony makes a mental note not to push her too much, he's seen enough to know he doesn't want the eventual snap happening at _him_. Clint's nowhere to be seen, but that's not saying much. Him and Natasha have a way of hiding in places one wouldn't think you _could_ hide in.

"Mr. Stark," Fury says. 

He's hiding it well, but Tony thinks none of them have actually gotten enough sleep in the past three days to play _coy_. 

Before Fury says anything else, though, Fury closes his mouth and eye with one, deep _sigh_.

 _Yep_ , definitely haven't had enough sleep.

"Follow me," Fury instructs, almost resigned, standing up from behind his desk and walking out of his office, Natasha following close behind trailed by Tony. Hills exits and goes down the other direction.

-

Fury leads them down so many floors that they end up underground, and there's so much security you'd think they were holding the _Arc of the Covenant_ and a whole _warehouse_ full of other artifacts. Which, honestly, wouldn't surprise him. He'll have to look into that later. 

But, what they eventually end up stopping in front of - after door after heavy, reinforced steel door - are two rooms. Cells, really, and they're each holding a _Soldier._

"Two of the most dangerous men in the world," Fury says, voice quiet. It actually sounds a little _sad_ , but Tony’s not sure if he should believe that, considering who the source is.

The Soldiers can't seem to see or hear them or each other ( _judging by the thickness of the wall between them and the apparent, soundproof glass in front of Tony_ ), but they're both curled up into the corner of the dividing wall, mirroring each other like a reflection. 

The one Tony _does_ recognize ( _long blonde hair obscuring his face, a bit like Thor_ ) is sitting with his back ramrod straight, naked ( _and Tony can figure out why there's a lack of clothes quick enough. Must have tried to silence himself_ ), and the other is slouched, deceptively so, like a snake waiting for the best moment to strike, also naked. 

For all that they're the same, they're completely different, too.

" _So_ ," Tony says in forced levity after a minute of studying the two of them ( _and he hesitates to call them men. **Are** **they?**_ ), "Who are the assassin twins?"

Fury's mouth tenses into a straight line and the tightness around his eye increases, if that's even possible ( _it is_ ). The answer must not be good. 

Natasha hasn't made a sound, which isn't unusual, but she's also been unnaturally still for the entire time that they've been standing here ( _yes, he noticed_ ), and that can't mean anything good, either.

Who _are_ these two?

"Come on, Fury," Tony says when neither seem forthcoming, "I _know_ you know who they are by now and even if you don't tell me, I'll just look into it myself, so you might as well just _spill it_."

Fury doesn't look happy about it, but he never looks happy about anything. 

Fury gestures out with his left arm first towards the cell on the left containing the blonde Soldier. "Meet Captain Steven Grant Rogers, also known as ‘Captain America’, born July 4th, 1918," he gestures to the other, "And Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, also known as the Howling Commando, ‘Bucky’, born March 10, 1917. Both were pronounced Missing In Action in the Winter of 1945 and are now known by the codenames: ' _The Soldier_ ' and ' _The Winter Soldier_ ', two of the best assassins in the world."

It's completely silent.

Tony can't think. He’s not even sure he's still _breathing_ -

His chest constricts.

Ah. He isn't. 

He takes a deep breath in, lets the air _whoosh_ out on the exhale. Maybe if he keeps thinking himself through that, this will all go away. 

He tries closing his eyes and mentally tapping his heels together three times, opens them.

Nope. Not happening. Still here. It's still real.

Shit.

The only thing that comes out eventually, roughly, is, " _How the hell did this happen?_ "

"We don't know." 

Fury doesn't sound pleased by that fact, and honestly, Tony wouldn't be either. Scratch that, he _isn’t_. 

"They won't talk, and they've tried killing themselves three times with their clothes alone. They're on enough sedatives to keep them from doing that much, which given their metabolisms means it's enough to knock out two horses, each,” Fury continues, “But they haven't said a word since waking, and move only a little more than that. And that's being generous."

Tony studies them a second time with the same amount of attention he gave to his second ever suit, cataloging everything: the scars, the hair, the different _postures_.

"Agent Romanoff suggested we try seeing how they react to each other, which we were about to do until we got wind you were coming here," Fury says next. Tony can't tell what his voice is hiding and decides to ignore it. Fury can be as happy or as _unhappy_ to see him as he wants. It doesn't change the fact that he's staying. "Agent Romanoff."

Natasha gives a curt nod before hitting a button on the panel attached to the wall of the cells in front of them and the dividing wall shifts slightly before starting to rise-

They both move lightning fast, darting away from it, which given the sedatives means they either just used up most of their stored up energy, or it's not working as well as the doctors thought. They're on their feet in a defensive stance almost in the blink of an eye.

There's only a thick layer of bulletproof, soundproof glass dividing them now, and it's _obvious_ that they can see each other-

They don't relax, exactly, but something shifts in the way they hold themselves. 

Their eyes dart around briefly - looking for potential threats, Tony's sure - before landing on each other. 

They move at almost the same time, stepping closer to the dividing glass wall and it's _eerie_ , how in unison they are. 

Their masks and goggles have long since been removed so they can all see their wide, shocked eyes as they stare at each other.

Steve- _The Soldier_ , is the first to raise his hand to the wall, right palm pressing against the glass.

Bucky- _The Winter Soldier_ , mirrors the motion with his left after a moment, leaving them palm to palm through inches of heavy glass.

Tony would be tempted to quote _Ghost_ or _Star Trek_ ( _much as he prefers_ **_Star Wars_** , let’s be honest) or something if it wasn't so fucking _sad_.

It's sudden, and takes the three of them by surprise when the _Winter Soldier_ reaches back and _punches_ the glass with his left fist. The Soldier just rests his forehead against the spot directly across from where the Winter Soldier is punching while the Winter Soldier goes at it again and again, once, twice, before his energy starts to wane. 

The Winter Soldier flattens his right palm against the glass and moves his face in close, pounding repeatedly with his metal fist while his breath fogs up the glass on his side. He stops after a few minutes, pounding slowing until he's just pressing his fist to it ( _not a scratch_ ), leaning his forehead near where the Soldier's is on the other side.

The Soldiers can't hear each other in the cells, but the three of _them_ can, so they each hear the pained _whine_ that comes out of the Winter Soldier when the pounding has stopped, and even though he can't hear it, he must be able to tell that the man made some sort of noise because The Soldier's fingers tighten against the glass, almost like he wants to lock their fingers together.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get _more_ sad, it _does_.

So, looks like Tony still won't be getting any sleep for a while.


	12. Collapse

They experiment a bit after that.

They try bringing the cement wall back down, talking to them when they can see each other and when they can't. They try getting them both to eat at the same time while they can see the other doing it. They try playing music or movies to see if they respond to any of it. They try showing themselves to the two Soldiers together and separate, while they can see each other and while they can't. It's...a mixed bag of results.

Bringing the wall back down causes a freak out, and that's putting it mildly. Barnes actually screams, and Tony's pretty sure he could have taken the wall down if he wasn't pumped full of so many sedatives.

Rogers shows the most emotion they've seen out of him and actually manages a few punches of his own against the glass before they're both too exhausted to keep going, but he never makes a sound.

Talking to them and showing themselves to the them leads to mixed reactions as well. They respond to Fury like he's a leader (so they can spot the head of an organization when they see one). They don't say anything, but they both sit up straighter and stare at him with an intensity Tony is glad he's not under. Fury handles it well, but he looks like he doesn't entirely know how to use it to do any _good_.

They don't respond to Tony at all. Nothing. It's unnerving, and he's trying not to take it personally because these guys have been through hell.

Reactions to Natasha are...interesting. Rogers doesn't react at all whether he can see Barnes or not. Barnes, on the other hand, is a whole different story.

There's a shift when her hair catches the light and Barnes' eyes widen, but he's quick to school his face into a blank mask. This happens when he can also see Rogers.

When they can't see each other, Barnes ends up standing right in front of her, a hairs breadth away from the viewing glass, and he shows more emotion in his eyes than they've seen him direct at anyone other than Rogers. It's not always the case, he seems to teeter between remembering her and not and to different varying degrees, but on the days he does remember her he talks to her in Russian. It's not a lot, he's aware he's being watched and might even be under the impression that he's back in Russia because ' _Natalia'_ (his words, not Tony's) is there, and they apparently have a history.

He doesn't react to her at all when he can see Rogers, whether he remembers her or not. Natasha says it may be because he's afraid they'll notice he feels anything towards ' _the other asset_ ' (her words, not his), but she doesn't elaborate. She doesn't really have to.

They eat (it's only a little, but it's something) when they can see each other, and never any other time. They both react to old Opera, Barnes more than Rogers, and Rogers seems to be getting attached to the Rock genre. Movies are a bust, they don't respond to anything there at all.

By mutual agreement, they decide to leave the cement wall up so that Barnes and Rogers can see each other. It seems to be the only thing that gets them anywhere near calm (or more so less tightly wound, but still ready to strike), but Barnes still seems to be the only one who remembers anything, scarce as it is. They're both aware that they're being monitored so they keep almost all interactions between each other to themselves. The only thing they show is their fingers pressed at the same points to the glass.

Things plateau out after three weeks and nothing changes until a month later.

Rogers shows signs of remembering, but they end up wishing he hadn't.

\--

Natasha goes in at night when she wants to see them alone. She doesn't try to force interaction with The Soldier, it's proved mostly fruitless. He does look at her once or twice, but his stare goes so far down inside her that she ends up being the one to look away first. It's not like The Winter Soldier's- James', stare. It's colder, somehow, more revealing. It hurts more.

Her interactions with James leave her more raw than she shows. The times he remembers her vary with how _much_ he remembers. Sometimes he knows that she got away and he's glad. Sometimes his latest memory is of them having just finished a mission and he assumes they've been caught together and The Red Room is keeping them separated. It's been years and she still manages to feel a sense of loss at it.

Other times, he doesn't remember her at all, and the one time she tries speaking to him in Russian he lashes out, spitting out fast insults in the language left and right before settling back into his corner and looking past her. Surprisingly, it's the times when he doesn't remember her at all that she's the most grateful for.

She doesn't like to admit it, but sometimes she seeks out Clint in the aftermath. They don't say anything, but his presence is more of a comfort than she wishes it was.

It's almost two months after they've captured them and she's sitting on a bench in front of the cells, set against the wall opposite them and she's just watching. The cement wall is raised so they can see each other, but they're not doing anything more than resting their arms in the same spot against the glass, staring at nothing.

She's lost in her own thoughts when she notices him. He comes out of the shadows like he's one of them and sits silently down next to her on the bench. It's comfortable.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Clint asks, voice is quiet, subdued. It's fitting for where they're at.

"I have red in my ledger," she says simply, just as quiet. She doesn't have to explain it to him. Clint understands.

"Do you think it'll get any better?" he asks after a few minutes, watching them as close as she is, "I mean, it can always get worse, and I might be jinxing the whole damn thing by saying that, but do you think there's a chance it could get better?"

She thinks over his words for a few minutes of her own, comparing events, experiences. It's not the same at all.

"I think they've been through so much it'd take a miracle to bring back any semblance of what they were," she starts, slow, thoughtful. He looks at her. "But, I think that nothing ever stays the same, and I'm not holding out for a positive ending. This isn't a fairy tale."

His gaze goes back to the cells after a few moments, and that's when she lets her own flicker over to him. He understands that, too.

They sit quietly for a while, her watching him watching them. Eventually, his body tenses and her own automatically follows suit, eyes already snapping forward before he says "' _Tasha-_ "

Rogers is gripping his head between both hands, nails digging into his skull. For once, he's not sitting straight up, but is instead curled in on himself, knees drawn up to his chest. Barnes' attention is zeroed in on him, and he's showing what might be worry. At least for them what would pass as 'worry'.

It's so quiet that they don't hear it at first, but it gradually gets loud enough that they can, a steady litany of, " _Bucky...Bucky...Bucky.._." slowly getting faster and louder as Rogers starts to shake, curling in on himself as tight as he can before he's screaming it. It's the first time they've heard him say anything, and his voice is deep and scratchy, rough like a box of timber from disuse.

Barnes is on his knees and his expression is tight, both hands pressed hard to the glass. Her and Clint both spring up from the bench and share a look before Clint's running off to the hidden control room around the corner and she's darting up to the panel. She presses a button and tries talking to Rogers, but he's yelling the name so loud she doesn't think he can hear her, doesn't think it would make any difference if he _could_. He hasn't done anything to injure himself yet, but she wouldn't bet on that not happening soon. She's ready to gas the room and knock them both out if she needs to.

Rogers finally seems to notice that Barnes is _right there_ and he staggers to his feet, Barnes following suit, one hand still holding his head while the other reels back, hitting the glass with enough force that she thinks he might have just broken his knuckles. It doesn't stop him from hitting it again and again, leaving blood smeared on the glass, and after a moment, Barnes is hitting the same spot, too. Rogers is still yelling, " _Bucky_ ," and Barnes seems to understand, because for the first time since they captured him he's yelling back, " _Steve_." And it's in English.

Clint returns with Fury just as the wall starts to crack under the joint pressure converging on a single point from both sides. Even with the little, jumbled thoughts in their heads, they're still weapons and their aim is deadly accurate. Fury takes a moment to gauge what's going on before he's shouting, "Gas the rooms!" and she doesn't hesitate to slam her palm down on the button.

They all watch as the gas floods the chambers.

It's not fast enough to stop them from breaking down the wall, glass cascading as they collapse into each other like tide meeting the sea. They have just enough time to dig nails and metal into one another's flesh before they're both crashing to the ground.

The room's silence is _screaming_.

"...What the fuck just happened." That's Clint.

"I don't know. But we need containment, now. And Clint," that's Fury, casting a look over at him, "Get me Stark."

Clint gives a short nod before running out of the room and then they're moving.

Natasha forces her hands to quit shaking.


	13. Cube

"Wait. _What exactly_ happened?" Tony asks. He's still recovering from the surgery from getting the shrapnel and arc reactor removed, but Fury had said this was urgent and he had a feeling he knew what it was related to.

"We don't know," Natasha replies.

"But we're guessing whatever programming that's been crammed into Rogers' head is starting to crumble, and taking everything else with it," Fury finishes for her. Natasha lips thin.

"And you want me to, what? Build a machine to go _digging around_?" Tony asks incredulously, already shaking his head, "Aside from how long that might actually take to not only build but _calibrate_ , I don't think you need me telling you what a _seriously terrible_ _idea_ that is. If they're this unstable without tampering, how unstable do you think they'll be _with_ tampering."

He's got a point, but their options are limited and she knows it, they all know it.

Fury looks like he's aware of all this already. "We don't have much of a choice," he starts, sounding resigned but determined, "It's either this, or we might as well just kill them. History shows that once the avalanche starts, it's only going to get worse."

Tony warks his brain for any other solution, anything at all, because he doesn't like it, he can't even begin to express how much he doesn't like it. It's one thing to mess with someone's body, _he knows_ , but it's a completely different thing to mess with someone's mind like it's your own personal playground. The fact that whoever did this to them _went there_ just puts them at the top of his list.

His eyes light up after a moment and he focuses back in on Fury, "What about Thor?" he asks, renewed energy in his voice, "He's got stuff on Asgard I'm sure none of us have ever even heard of before, and after that thing in London he's been sticking around to hang out with Jane. Should be easy enough to get a hold of him and ask for his input, see if he's got anything that could help with this." It's a great idea, it's a _brilliant_ idea, because the alternative isn't something Tony wants to even think about considering.

Fury looks thoughtful for a moment before he glances to Natasha. Her lips un-thin just the slightest as she looks right back before giving him a curt nod. Fury picks up the phone and dials.

\--

Thor greets them like old friends when he arrives on the helipad, Mjolnir in hand. Tony supposes they are, technically, at this point. Besides, it's not like it's hard to be happy to see Thor when his smile basically lights up the whole area.

"My friends," he starts, holding a hand out to shake at the wrist before pulling each of them into a hug, "It is good to see you again. Jane told me that you need my help but could not explain over the phone. She only said that it sounded urgent. What is it that you need?"

"Come inside, we'll talk in there," Fury replies, leading them into the Triskelion, to the elevator, then down to his office.

"We've got two men in our holding facilities experiencing advanced mental instability," Fury starts, which is about where Tony cuts in because there's no time for _that_.

"We've got two, one-hundred year old war heroes turned assassins in Fury's basement that have been brainwashed for who knows how long, probably years, and their programming is warring with whatever it is they're remembering," he says, all on a single breath. It's a mouthful, but Thor's still listening and looks like he's understanding, so Tony keeps going. Fury just gives him a look that he decides to ignore. "They're cracking, one more than the other, but it's probably only a matter of time before the other follows suit. We need something to help mentally stabilize them, and if possible, it'd be great if it could also give them all of their memories back while we're at it."

Thor looks contemplative for a few moments and the three of them stay quiet, giving him time to think. Finally, his eyes seem to flicker with something as he looks to the three of them again. "There is something..." he trails off, a slightly wry uptick to the side of his mouth, "You would know it as the Tesseract."

There's a moments pause before Tony breaks in, "...Are you _sure_ that's the only option?"

Thor looks like he understands the reluctance to use it and has just as much reluctance himself, but he gives a nod. "I am wary of returning it here as well, but if what you say is as pressing as it sounds, then it is our quickest option, and it is the only thing that will restore the memories you say are collapsing in these men's minds."

Tony lets out a sigh. Natasha looks like she's accepted it and decided the risk as necessary. After a moment, Fury gets the same look.

"Alright," Fury says, "Bring it in."

\--

Thor returns from his trip to London - stopping to explain to Jane why he'll be late to their dinner - and Asgard with the Tesseract in hand, mumbling something about, "Odin was not pleased," but vowing to return it as soon as the deed was done. Tony doesn't want to think about what Thor's been up to for his father ( _King, Allfather, Ruler of the Nine Realms,_  what is his _life)_  to trust him that much... _everything_. It's not like the Tesseract is a _tricycle_. Whatever it was, including London, it couldn't have been easy.

Fury leads them all down to the underground levels, but this time, instead of going right to head to the cells the Soldiers were held in, they go left. Turns out they have more than two of those cells. Makes sense.

Rogers and Barnes are in separate cells again, but this time they're unconscious, Rogers strapped to a gurney and Barnes laid out on the cement floor like a Star Fish. There's a few doctors milling around just outside Rogers' glass cell wall, a couple scribbling down something in charts; there's two over in front of Barnes' conversing quietly.

"How do they look?" Fury speaks up, drawing all of the doctor's attentions to him, five in total.

"They're currently unconscious and sedated," one of the doctors starts, a women, thirty-two-ish, long brown hair in a ponytail and glasses resting on her nose, "But we've had to up Prisoner One's sedation medication to dangerous levels. We won't be able to keep him under for much longer without causing more damage." She looks like she's genuinely worried over said 'prisoner'. Tony likes her immediately.

"Prisoner Two isn't under as heavy a dosage, but he's thrashed around in his sleep and broke Brent's nose," a male doctor replies, early twenties, but he carries himself like he's been doing this for _years_ , "We've shut the metal arm down at your request, but his levels are also rising like Prisoner One's. If we're going to do something, it needs to be soon."

Fury gives a sharp nod before walking over to the glass wall separating them from Rogers, who looks like shit, if Tony wants to be frank. He's sweaty and grimy and he's got dark bruises under his eyes from the lack of sleep, his hair's a wreck and he's covered in scars (not nearly as many as Barnes, but enough, and full of stories none of them know, except maybe Natasha). His body's gone down in mass, but he's still built like a house.

Fury gestures at Thor as he takes a step back and Thor takes one forward, holding the Tesseract in it's glass container.

"They don't need to be awake for this do they?" Tony pipes up, standing back with Natasha.

"No," comes the reply, and then Thor's holding out the Tesseract towards Rogers' cell, " _Remember_."

Rogers' back bows on the bed as the Tesseract glows a blinding blue-white, eyes shooting open and mouth wide in a silent scream. Thor doesn't waste any time, repeating the with Barnes who has a similar reaction, except they _can_ hear his scream. It sends a shiver darting down Tony's spine and makes his hair stand on end.

Both collapse back onto the gurney and floor as the glow dies down to a subtle pulse, still unconscious.

 _Now we wait_ , Tony thinks, mouth flattened into a hard, grim line.


	14. It's been a long, long time

Two hours.

Looking at it from the whole of things, it's not that long, but when you're stuck in the middle of it all it's _nerve_ wracking.

Thor went back to Asgard to return the Tesseract, all still figuring it's better to keep it on Earth as little as possible, but not before asking them if they wanted him to return after. Fury requested ( _because demanding is not really an option_ ) that he be prepared if they do call. Thor had simply nodded before gripping their arms again in the Asgardian equivalent of a handshake and taking off back for London.

That was two hours ago. _Two hours and fifteen minutes_ to be precise, and still no change. Tony's had a steady of loop of anxiety and nerves going through his system while his dad's stories about Captain America keep overlapping in his head. He's not foolish enough to think the Tesseract just _magically made everything better_ (he's kind of glad it didn't because that would fuck with his mind more than it already has been), but how much they'll see of Steve "Captain America" Rogers and James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes is leaving him on edge. Those stories were some of the only times his father talked to him with more than a cold stare, he's got a right to feel like his world might possibly be collapsing in on itself, if just a little bit.

It's been three minutes since he started rapidly bouncing his knee up and down while sitting in one of Fury's, surprisingly, not that uncomfortable office chairs in his spartan decorated office when they get a call from the holding cells.

Rogers is starting to wake up.

\--

It's bright.

He slips his eyes open a crack before letting them fall back closed.

It's too bright. Is he in the chair? No. Horizontal, one-hundred and eighty degree angle, straps - that's familiar - cushion (softer than usual, _unfamiliar_ ) Bucky-

His eyes snap open. The lights momentarily blind him.

Flashes dart through his mind: Charcoal. Paper texture under his fingertips. Cigarette smoke. _"Welcome to the future!" "I love you Howard!" "I had'im on the ropes."_ Grass under him, the sky above. Stars at night and a warm beer. Someone's shoulder pressed to his. It's cold and his lungs won't work right- Shuttering coughs, wheezing, arms wrapped around his skinny body- Gunfire. _"Hey! Let's hear it for Captain America!"_ Fire, so much fire it's _everywhere_. Flashes of deadly blue light. A skull made of red. Small round glasses. Men laughing around a camp fireawomanatrain _"Bucky!"_  - _Falling falling falling_ \- Pulling straps off a table-

His body convulses, muscles bunching tight and body going stiff. He squeezes his eyes shut. The straps creak under the pressure. His fingers curl into fists.

Gunfire. Explosions. Blood blood blood everywhere _he's soaked in it drowning in it_ -

He lets out a cough, blood in the back of his throat, sputtering out to land on his lips and chin. He bit through a small part of his tongue.

He focuses on the minor pain, focuses until the bubbles of memory recede-  _Memory_. _When was the last time_ \- He can't. He can't right now. **_He just can't._**

Muffled voices. This isn't the first time he's heard muffled voices. For once, he knows this _isn't the first time_.

**_He knows._ **

The straps binding him _snap_ and he disentangles himself from the mess of it, throwing himself off of the table (gurney? Table? Chair?) and onto the floor, scrabbling back on hands and feet far enough to put some distance between himself and _it_ before getting unsteadily to his feet, hands in front of himself in defense. He's _disoriented_.

"..aptain Rogers-"

Puts his back to a corner.

"..er me, Captain Rog-"

_"I had'em on the ropes."_

His mind's a flood and his eyes are open and he can't _see a damn thing_ because _there's so much fire_ -

Now it's the wife of a senator getting a bullet through her head-

Now it's mountains getting higher and higher as he falls _further and further_ -

His body gives a full _shudder._

One o'clock, ten feet, five foot nine.

He focuses.

Minimal threat, white lab coat (re-evaluate threat level - clearance high), object (table- gurney) to the right, weapons options: minimal-

"..tain Rogers-"

He tries to respond but it comes out as a growl.

The voices stop talking.

After a moment, they start to recede, a few moments later the _shh-ck_ sound of a door sliding closed, followed by lights dimming. He didn't realize he was breathing so hard. He tries to get it back under control-

_Focus._

He blinks, three times, memories and flashes and... _feelings - old as a 1940's news reel -_   falling back to leave only his five main senses and texture. He's in a large room. There's a gurney with broken straps and disheveled cushions with the head area against the middle of the wall. There's a large glass screen to his left that he can't see out of and everything else is made of cement. He shifts a foot slightly-

Little to no sound feedback.

It's thick.

He's in a cage.The fact is both comforting and nauseating. He's not sure what to do with either, so he focuses on cataloging himself.

No clothes, hair in his eyes, hunger, bandaged right fist - the pulse of pain from his grip helps steady him, so he squeezes _hard_ \- small cuts in his knees and most of his right foot (metal, glass, plastic- unknown. Given surroundings, glass is most likely), fatigue, drowsiness, exhaustion. All limbs intact. No freezer burn in his mind, indicates no recent trip to the chair. His breathing is under control.

His eyes shift to the left, staring at the wall of glass. There's a team of people behind it, now. Faces: unknown - _one looks a little like Howard_ \- He squeezes his right hand harder. The pain grounds him. Focus.

" _Captain Rogers_ ," one with an eyepatch says, voice coming through a speaker that seems to be _everywhere_. The man holds himself tall and proud, the others angled around him. Designation: Leader.

He doesn't flinch at the words, but it's a close thing. A name. It sounds like him and it doesn't, sounds like his and sounds _nothing like him at all_. It's jarring. He hates it. He _hates_.

He doesn't move, simply stares. They'll tell him what they want to either way. It doesn't matter what he feels, shouldn't be feeling anything _anyway_. _Wait_ -

" _My name is Nick Fury,"_ the man says, _"You're at S.H.I.E.L.D. Do you remember anything?_ "

_'Remember'?_

_Gunfire- Metal- Fire. Ice. **Falling falling falling** -_

He doesn't move; continues to stare; squeezes his right hand again.

The man stares back. He's not used to that. The scientists in white lab coats never liked _looking him in the eye_ -

" _We used a...tool, to restore your memories_ ," the man- Fury starts again, gaze level, but he can see the trepidation in his one good eye, " _Can you tell us something from your past. You're stuck in that room alone until we know whether it worked or not_."

A test.

He blinks once, slowly, trying to remember how to think past directives. He can feel the memories bubbling up again. They're ready to burst-

"Baseball," he says after a minute, quiet ( _is that his voice? Scratchy, rough, **tired** , accent_), "1941. Fifth row. Everyone was cheering. I was cheering...I cheered so hard my asthma started- I couldn't breathe- Bucky-" he cuts himself off, grinding his teeth together, "A train. We fell."

Because it wasn't just him. He was reaching for someone, even as he fell. _He was reaching for_ -

The man nods before signalling to a man with blond hair and blue eyes close to him. His fingers look accustomed to weapons.

The man steps forward towards a panel in front of the glass wall keeping everyone out of his reach, half of it cut off by the wall immediately to his left. At least two rooms, then.

Fury says something to someone he can't see beyond the glass and off to his left (in front of the second room), but looks satisfied enough with the answer before returning his attention to him.

" _I think there's someone you'll want to see_ ," is all Fury says, signalling to the blond man who pushes a button and-

The wall behind him shifts and rises. He doesn't jump, but he does spin around, body _tense, and_ _ready for_ -

His eyes widen.

"...Bucky?" His voice sounds strained even to his own ears, and he can feel something trying to claw its way up through his stomach to get to his throat, tearing everything to shreds along the way-

Bucky's in about the same defensive position he is, but his metal arm ( _metal arm_ \- He _knows_ this- This is new- This _isn't_ new) is locked at his side and his eyes are widening and-

"...Steve?" comes through speakers from somewhere and part of his brain is cataloging the locations but the rest of him is collapsing inward like a dying star and when did this hands reach the glass?

He thinks he makes a choked sound when Bucky's right palm rests on the opposite side of his left one through the glass wall, Bucky's eyes roaming over his face while his do the same.

There's people watching and they're both naked and part of him finds the whole thing ridiculous in some small part of his brain newly unlocked and put back in place, but a larger part is watching for threats and an ever greater part is _absorbed_ in _Bucky_ -

It all kaleidoscopes together in a series of images and flashes and sensations from the past and the present: a smiling, familiar face overlapping a flat mouth with eyes covered by goggles, a warm hand gently cupping the back of his neck overlapped with a metal palm wrapped around his throat and cold fingers - _they're so cold_ - _**squeezing**_ ; a shocked but delighted laugh overlapped with a dark, low _growl_ -

He realizes then that his forehead is pressed to the glass and his eyes are squeezed shut. Everything hurts. When was the last time he felt anything that he couldn't just compartmentalize away?

He forces his eyes open and angles his head up. Bucky's staring at him and it's the soft concern of his childhood friend but it's also the hard intensity of a dragon guarding its gold. He knows he looks much the same.

A throat clears and he can see Bucky faintly tensing like himself, years of training keep them both from jumping, but they both tilt their heads to look towards their captors ( _obey, follow orders, if you don't they'll use the chair and it'll_ _**freeze burn** **cut**_ -)

" _I hate to interrupt the moment_ ," Fury starts, expression serious, " _But I think it's about time we caught you both up on the last seventy years. You two have been gone a long time_."

They don't say anything. It's all too much and it's all too little.

His fingertips press into the cold glass and he focuses on those five points, because he knows there's five more pressed to the exact same place on the other side of the barrier.

He lets out a breath and it doesn't fog from being frozen, even though he still feels ice in his chest and bones.

Without even having to look, he knows Bucky's breathing in at the same time.


	15. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness I need to go to bed what am I doing.

He's listening but his attention is fractured - it's nothing he can't handle - but the pull to keep an eye on Steve is too strong. Neither of them have really moved from their corners of the rooms, but now they're sitting down the way they were recently (years ago? Hours? _Minutes?_ Fuck if he knows). He's slouched in a practiced sprawl, mindless of his nudity, Steve is sitting with his back ramrod straight and his right fist curled on the top of his right knee. Their fingers are lined up and pressing at the same points on the glass between them.

" _We caught the Winter Soldier trying to steal the Tesseract from the top of Stark Tower while The Soldier_ ," a nod to his right, towards The Soldier, towards Steve, " _Was acting as a sacrificial lamb to distract the Avengers_ ," their captor- Fury says, sitting on the bench across the way from their cages (he doesn't flinch at the designation, it's as much his as it isn't, now, but his arm tenses slightly. They weren't planning to get The Soldier back if he got caught), " _We managed to subdue both of you in turn and bring you here, where our resident Asgardian found a tool we could use to bring your memories back from the repeated mind wipes that we're assuming have been happening steadily over the past seventy years. And that brings us up to speed._ "

Fury stares at them with his one good eye. They don't budge.

He can see Natalia from here. He's not sure how to feel.

There's a man that resembles Stark bouncing his leg up and down on the other end of the bench. He's not sure how to feel about that either.

He's not sure how to **_feel_**.

" _You're seriously the guys my dad went on and on about?_ " the Howard look alike bursts out after a few minutes of tense silence, drawing all eyes to him. Well, most of them.

" _Stark_ ," Fury says sharply. Stark makes a cutting motion with his hand.

Well, that answers that question.

" _Howard_..." Steve says quietly through the speakers, brokenly. _Fuck,_ he remembers that too. He wasn't the one to pull the trigger, though he might as well been, but it was- 

_("Two degrees to the right. Change in wind," Russian. His voice is a whisper. The Soldier at his side adjusts the angle perfectly, letting out a slow breath of his own as his finger gently caresses the trigger-)_

" _I'm sorry_ ," quieter, a Russian accent curling at the edges, a sound of finality to it.

Fuck.

Stark's eyes widen, "... _Fuck_."

He doesn't look at the Soldier- Steve, but he does shift himself subtly closer. It's all he can do (he can tell Natalia's noticed, along with the blonde man).

Stark's son leaves the room in a hurry after that and then there's another moment of tense silence. He can see Steve out of the corner of his eye, head slightly bowed but eyes made of steel. He feels like that too.

\--

They try to ask more questions, but neither of them feels like talking. He can't tell if he's grateful or starved for any attention he can get when most of them file out, leaving Fury, Natalia, and the blonde man behind.

" _We weren't sure about that one_ ," Fury says, voice a little quieter, " _But I guess now we know. Food will be brought in shortly, along with a psychologist each for both of you. We don't know how many triggers, if any, have been implanted, and we can't do much until we **do** know, including giving you clothes_."

It sounds like it's meant to be a very dry joke. No one cracks a smile.

" _Gentlemen_ ," Fury says before he leaves. Natalia stays behind for a moment before she turns around and follows too, the blonde close behind her, glancing back once. Part of his brain makes a note of this, the other part is already turning to Steve (The Soldier- _Steve_ -)

He only turns his head enough to look at him. After a moment, Steve ( _The Soldier_ \- Steve) leans his head against the glass, face angled towards him.

 _"I don't..."_  Steve (The Soldier) starts in Russian, Steve's always picked up languages better ( _faster_ \- **_Punishment. Must be faster. Must be more efficient_** -) than him, _"I feel like the seams holding me together are slowly bursting apart. I feel like I have double vision. There's so much **red**_ Buck-  _Winter Soldier-_ **Buck** ," he switches between Russian and English.

They left the cell speakers on for them to talk. He's sure they're recording it. Of course they fucking are. Steve seems past the point of caring about it right now. He can't blame him.

He angles his own head against the glass. It would be resting against The Soldier's- Steve's if they were touching, if they _could_ touch-

"Go to sleep." English. He doesn't want to sound like their old masters, giving commands in Russian. Steve follows them like a soldier, anyway, out in sixty seconds. His body doesn't shift; he'll wake at the slightest sound.

Bucky (Winter Soldier- _Bucky_ -) looks at him for a while, trying to not keep track of how long ( _five minutes, thirty-two seconds- **stop**_ ) and something coils like a snake in the pit of his stomach, tensing his muscles before he forces them to some semblance of relaxed. 

As he forces himself to sleep, he thinks he hears their claws shifting in the dark behind his closed eyes, getting ready to tear everything apart.


	16. Psychobabble

It's been two hours since he left the room (Tony Stark does not _flee_ ) and there's shrinks down there now, talking to two greatly traumatized war heroes. He's past the point of holding his head in his hands and has had JARVIS try to call Pepper three times. She'd picked up the third time but said she was about to start a meeting, then proceeded to ask if he wanted her to cancel if he needed her and he vehemently declined. He made her CEO of Stark Industries and he's damn well going to let her do her job, not ruin her (let's admit it) amazing run just because it turns out a national-icon-turned-assassin killed his father, _especially_ not because a national-icon-turned-assassin killed his father ( _fuck_ , seriously,  _what is his life_ -)

So now he's standing here, leaning against a railing a few levels below the Triskelion helipad and staring out at one of the most well known cities across the water, and trying to sort out the mess in his head. He's been trying for two hours now and he's managed to take one of the devices in his pocket apart and put it back together seven times and _damn it_ -

"Amazing view isn't it," comes a voice to his right. He does _not_ jump, or make a sound ( _it might have been a squeal_ ), he _doesn't_. Honestly, he was expecting someone to come find him sooner or later, he just didn't think it would take this long or be this particular person.

He turns his head a little to look in the direction of the voice. Coulson's got his hands resting on the same railing his forearms have been leaning on for the past half hour.

Tony moves his gaze back out. "It's not bad. I've seen better."

Coulson just smiles a little like he's fully aware.

Neither of them say anything for a few minutes, just enjoying the cool breeze under the summer sun. It shouldn't feel like such a perfectly, ordinary day when it's anything _but_.

"I'm sorry," Coulson starts, his voice the same level it usually is, but Tony knows that doesn't mean he doesn't mean it, "For what it's worth."

Tony gives a snort after another moment. He can feel Coulson shift to look at him. "Yeah well," he starts, "It's kind of funny actually. Captain America was all dad ever talked about, and it's ironic that he turned out to be the one that killed him." He leans his head back and closes his eyes, dragging his arms with him and letting his palms grip the railing. He can feel the edges digging into his skin. It's grounding. It helps, if only slightly.

They don't say anything for a while. Tony can hear a seagull a little ways off. Fuck, he wants to talk to Pepper.

"I lost my father in a war when I was young." It almost comes out of nowhere and Tony almost jumps, almost. "I don't remember much about him, just that he was a kind man," Coulson continues. Tony opens his eyes but doesn't look at him. "After the war, I painted up this trashcan lid like Captain America's. I'd run around the streets with my 'Howling Commandos' and lead my own charge against the ornery street vendors until my mother called me inside. I don't know how I'd react if I found out that Captain America had been the one to kill my father. I imagine I'd first try to rationalize it away because, well."

This is the most Tony's heard Coulson talk in one sitting that wasn't a debriefing and it almost scares him, but he listens intently because Coulson never gets this personal.

"But given the circumstances, I don't think I could hate him forever," his voice is a little softer, it almost makes Tony uncomfortable, but it touches him more, that Coulson might care that much, "I can't imagine what he's been through, how far they would _have_ to dig into him to get him to follow an order to kill his own friend, but I would come to realize that they are the ones to hate, the real trigger behind the gun, and not the man that became the gun itself. I don't know how he's going to live with himself after all of this."

They're quiet again, one waiting and one contemplative. Finally, Tony lets out a sigh, casting another glance at Coulson. "Was any of that origin story true?" he asks to try and lighten the mood. It works. Coulson cracks a smile.

"Enough," he replies, the sly man. Tony cracks a smile of his own.

He knows better, he does, but he also knows it's going to take time, whether he wants it to or not. He's only human. He knows Coulson knows this, too.

Coulson turns to leave but Tony turns towards him shortly after. It catches Coulson's attention and he stops.

"You still have that trashcan lid?" Tony asks, smirk tugging up a corner of his mouth.

Coulson just gives him another of his calm, gives-nothing-away smiles, but when he walks off there's a slight swagger to his step, just enough to be noticeable.

Tony's smirk stretches into an amused grin.

\--

Natasha keeps an eye on things but stays out of sight, sitting next to Clint in the hidden observation room just around the corner of the hall that leads to the cells. She watches both monitors, eyes shifting to observe the four different angles of each cell.

They're both talking to their assigned psychologists now. Somehow, Fury got a couple of telepaths to join them, though Barnes and Rogers were both understandably resistant for the first hour and a half. But given the options of living life in a cage with no human contact (least of all each other) or more of the same (the potential more subtle, more deadly than going in with a chair) and a mountain of attempted reassurances from Fury and then _Natasha_ , they'd finally agreed to it. It was the best way to root out any triggers embedded in their minds and they all knew it. It still made her uncomfortable, being part of them agreeing to more people rooting through their heads. She'd have hated it as much as they do.

Clint uncrosses and recrosses his legs on top of the row holding the keyboards beneath the screens for the third time in the past hour, fingers laced on top of his stomach. He looks relaxed, reclined precariously on the back legs of his chair, but they both know that's not true.

"I heard Barnes _and_ the Winter Soldier were some pretty good shots in their respective times," he says, breaking the silence they've maintained for the past thirty minutes. She almost rolls her eyes, but her mouth ticks up at the edges. "You think, if this goes well, they'll let me..."

She almost smiles. She knows he can hear it in her voice when she replies, "Maybe. If you're good enough."

Clint scoffs, but he's got on a smile of his own now. "I can behave when it's necessary."

"Would you deem this 'necessary'?" She's got a small smile now.

"Definitely," he replies immediately. He frowns slightly as she smiles further. He knows he lost _that_ little game.

"Then I'm sure he'll let you," she says a moment later, eyes flicking to him briefly before going back to the screens, smile slipping off, "If this goes well."

He doesn't touch her but he does angle himself more in her direction, chair not making a sound.

"You think Tony will be able to handle it." It's not quite a question. She doesn't need it to be.

"Yes," she keeps her eyes focused on the screens, "He has to. This changes things."

Clint gives a small nod, his own eyes focused on the screens now as well. "I know I signed up for this, but sometimes..." he trails off, swinging his feet down after a moment and bringing the chair back to the floor, quieter than should be possible. He leans towards her a little more, forearms coming down to rest on the top of his knees. He lowers his voice. "Sometimes, I wish shit would stop getting thrown in our direction so much. I mean aliens? Mind-fucks? Asgardian gods and now this? If this is what my life is going to look like with the Avengers I'm seriously going to need another outlet."

She can tell he's half joking, but he's half serious, too.

They're both quiet for several minutes, parts of them lost in their own thoughts.

"You could take up crocheting."

"Fuck you, I'd make some mean doilies."

"I'm sure." She says. And just like that the spell is broken and they're both cracking smiles, Clint giving a bark of a laugh. They might even come out of this half fine.

\--

Three hours later and the day's sessions are done. The telepaths have finished their work and the psychologists have only just begun, but the triggers have been neutralized. Rogers and Barnes both look beyond exhausted, worn down thin and raw in the corners of their cells, arms pressed to the same points on the glass more obviously than usual. Rogers isn't sitting as ramrod straight, but he's still managed to keep himself from sprawling. Barnes isn't putting in as much effort, but she can tell he's not leaving himself defenseless, either. A large part of her is glad that they're not being completely trusting, however unwillingly any trust has been given so far, she wants them to survive the world if they're going to try.

They're finally allowed out one at a time for a shower and clothes (simple things: scrubs, nothing with a drawstring), each returned to their cell immediately after. They watch each other come and go like lifelines. 

Fury wants to keep them under observation until the psychologists deem them safe enough to be let out. It's a safety precaution, for them and S.H.I.E.L.D. Natasha doesn't like it, seeing them locked away in cages, but this isn't about what she likes or doesn't like. They can't risk it. Besides, none of them are under the impression that someone won't come looking for them eventually. The fact that they've managed to keep the whole thing quiet this long has already started making her suspicious. Things like that just don't _happen_.

They've both got wet hair dangling down their faces when she comes back from giving a report to Fury on her time monitoring the sessions with the telepaths and psychologists (nothing out of place. Vitals stable. Minimal lashing out). Rogers' blonde parts from further right on his forehead while Barnes' parts down the middle. Barnes' she's used to, but after seeing the reels of Captain America, the long hair looks kind of odd on Rogers. She doesn't know if it was a tactic by whoever possessed them to make them less recognizable by whoever may have managed to get a good enough look at them, or just a lack of care, but it works. They don't look much at all like they used to, their demeanor alone is almost entirely different. Rogers still stands like he's leading soldiers and Barnes still stands like he's one of those soldiers, but apart from that there's very little resemblance in manner. She's also noticed that while Barnes is, if not very, still vocal, Rogers rarely says a word. She's listened to the recordings of their time alone herself and even then it's sparse. Most of what's said is Barnes saying a word or two, sometimes a sentence, but it's a rare thing. They both know they're being recorded, it's a given. When Rogers _does_ talk it's mostly in Russian. She doesn't know what to make of that.

She turns to leave the monitor room as the lights dim for the evening. They're all going to need their rest for tomorrow. If tonight goes well, the wall comes down.


	17. Crumble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that, they finally ended up in the same room. Man I'm tired.

He jerks awake from what little sleep he's managed to get, it's been off-again-on-again, memories converging to take the form of nightmares. He quickly glances to his left, checking that Bucky- the Winter Soldier is there before letting his eyes slide back shut. Sleep won't come again, his body's become attuned to the controlled lights of his cage. If S.H.I.E.L.D. is anything like militaristic, which judging from what he's evaluated so far, it is, then the lights must increase in output not too long after dawn. It's jarring. He used to wake with the sun.

The clothes are jarring, too.

They're loose on him, both from his slimming down and just the size. It reminds him of when he was smaller and the memories want to flood, rush, but he's trying to hold them off and sort through them one by one. He can't afford to be that distracted here ( _evaluate targets. Note exits._   ** _Focus on the mission_** \- ) His left eye twitches slightly. He makes a fist with his right hand and squeezes. The damaged bones will complete healing in two days, until then the pain helps ground him. He mind is a mess of fond memories and mission directives, and if he teeters too far he's going to get pulled under one and then spit back out by the other. It's a knife's edge.

The psychologist helped ( _enemy forces. Can't be trusted. **Hail Hydra** \- **squeeze** **-** Pain_) but it still feels like a bomb went off inside a tornado inside his head. Most of his thoughts are in languages he didn't know before the fall, the rest are in English with a Brooklyn accent and a levity that hurts to recall. Part of him feels trained in polite decorum, the other wants to tear it all down and spit on its remains. Then there's the _thinking_ -

He hasn't been this selfaware in _years_ and it fucking _hurts_. He can feel the difference of Before and After and it's pulling and twisting him sideways like a wrung out dishrag. He remembers times in the chair more vividly than he thinks he should ( _a result of the the 'tool' the Asgardian used because there's no way it's_ **_him_** ) and they have a clarity to them like they _just happened_. They're shoved down, set aside. He can't go there right now.

There's mission flashes, the recoil of a rifle, boot edge touching the Winter Soldier's while they kill people from a roof with a gun, timing it so it would happen in unison like a fucking _choreographed dance_  and he didn't feel _anything_ for those people. All he felt was the Winter Soldier's boot touching his.

He feels so much _self loathing_ and fucking **_guilt_** he could _drown_ in it _a hundred times over-_

He can't go there right now. He doesn't know if he'd survive it. He doesn't know if he'd _want_ to-

But that's not his choice. Even with the shaky autonomy he has now it's never been his choice, not just because of the handlers and the Red Room and fucking Hydra (they must have just _laughed_ over his cryotube) but because-

He opens his eyes slightly and glances to his left. The Winter Soldier- Bucky's still sleeping (he won't be for long:  _two minutes and fourty-two seconds_ -).

It's not just him anymore. The moment they caught them both and dragged them into their world it's been the two of them. He remembers not remembering, he remembers hearing his own screams, hearing _Bucky's_ _screams_ \- He closes his eyes, squeezes his fist.

**_He can't go there right now._ **

He wonders if S.H.I.E.L.D. realizes how badly he wants to scream. How often it's trying to claw its way past his throat.

Fuck he's a mess.

_(32 seconds)_

_(25 seconds)_

_(10 seconds)_

_(1-)_

He opens his eyes and looks to the left again. Bucky's staring right at him.

The lights go up.

Something deep down in his stomach clenches.

\--

The entourage arrives not long after the lights go up, but he keeps his eyes focused on The Soldier- Steve. He doesn't know if the people observing them have noticed, but Steve practically screams with his eyes. Even in the fucked up jumble of his head, that's always been true ( _90 pounds of nothing- fists raised- blood streaming out of the corner of his mouth_ \- **_eyes on fire_** \- ).

It wasn't the same after the chair, but something was there, enough that it moved something deep down inside of him in response, kept him lashing out during their training. Whether he was trying to show it or _get it out_ through violence, _any way he_ **_could_** , he's not sure. Without the chair and whatever S.H.I.E.L.D. used on them, Steve's (The Soldier's) eyes have changed (back but not quite) and stayed the same. Bucky- the Winter Soldier watches him, always watches him, and their contact has gone from as much communication as The Soldier can muster after a wipe ( _boots touching, angled close, eyes on each other, fifteen seconds until their handlers come into the room_ ) to screaming at him. Something in him's responding, it always does, even if some times it takes longer than others, but he's not sure how it's going to come out. He's never been sure of anything but Steve. At least that hasn't changed.

He can hear Fury talking, but it's muffled, far away because Steve's eyes are screaming, focused on his, and it's all he can hear. It drowns out everything else. The wall shifts and they shift with it, moving to their feet, slower than before, like they're in the path of another predator and one too-quick move will tip the scales, change everything.

He almost wants to laugh. _Predators._  That's one fucking word he could use to describe them both.

The wall seems to fall away like molasses and like it takes no time at all, the growing gap filling in with air and tension and silence. The silence is so loud he half hopes it'll take up residence in his mind, he could use the break. His memories have been pressing at him like knives and pins and needles, each ready to run him through and nail him down like a butterfly specimen, set in glass and framed on some scientist's wall.

And then the glass wall is completely gone and his head _does_ fill with silence. It's a blessed torture, but it's also shark infested waters. He can feel whatever's been coiling inside of him shifting- _moving_ \- and then he's moving with it.

They gave him control of his arm back after the telepath went through his head and deemed it clear, and whatever's human in him is wishing they hadn't, _wishing_ \- and then he stops thinking, because his metal fist is colliding with a strong jaw and there's finally fucking _peace_.

He can't hear the yelling beyond the glass.

\--

He sees it in Bucky's- the Winter Soldier's eyes before there's metal and _then_ -

He stops thinking. 

His body floods with something and then he's _moving_ -

They lash out at each other, scratching, clawing, _biting_ \- There's yelling coming from somewhere and his mind automatically translates it into Russian. His memory dumps him in a training room and he's wearing goggles and-

He sidesteps in close to the Winter Soldier's right, grabs him by the throat, lifts him up a few inches and then slams him _down_ \- vaguely registers a _crack_ ( _sound slightly off, thicker than bone_ \- _cement floor; **relief**_ ). He doesn't move fast enough and then there's metal fingers in his hair, yanking his head back as they roll.

He's on his back and there's still yelling overlapping with Russian commands and he can't tell what's past and what's present but he tunes it all out because the _Winter Soldier ( **Bucky** )_ is leaning in and he can smell him and it's calming and exhilarating and _finally something familiar_ -

And then there's teeth biting down on his collarbone and blood soaking through his shirt and he buries his nose in long brown hair. For the first time he doesn't want to **_scream_** -

There's bodies in black filling the room and they're getting closer but he can't focus because he's trying to shift his leg so he can roll them again-

And then the bodies in black are trying to pull _Bucky ( **The Winter Soldier** )_ away from him and he can't lose that weight, that smell, _that_ _familiarity_ -

And he digs his fingers in and pulls back, but there's more of them now and the weight's gone _and_ -

\--

He throws off the bodies in black pulling at him with a growl, body giving a full shudder when he gets a responding sound.

There's memories flashing through his mind- ( _Blonde hair, blue eyes, pencil shavings and charcoal- the smell of an alley and the grit of brick and the clang of falling trash cans_ \- _Shoulder to shoulder, so much taller, a car, and he's telling him to adjust his scope in a paper soft whisper, almost like a caress_ \- ) and there's bodies in the way but he can feel the pull, he's always felt it, and _they're in the way_ -

There's a few screams, some small part of him knows he causes them, but then he's got his back against a familiar build and his hands are up and he's evaluating ( _twenty, black, armored, armed. Mission: unknown. Objective: unknown. Override- Soldier- Defense offense_ **_protect protect_** \- **Mine** ) and then they're both moving, a familiar presence at his back.

Hesitation from the bodies, non-lethal weaponry, avoid tazer ends and projectiles. Back to back. Eliminate obstacles.

Time lapse: unknown. Threats neutralized. Catalogue functionality (exhaustion, hunger, fifty percent capacity).

His eyes dart to The Soldier (exhaustion, hunger, fifty-six percent capacity) before returning to the room.

He licks the Soldier's ( _Steve's_ ) blood from his lips. It's the only thing that tastes familiar. It belongs to him. It's the only thing he has that's his and _they can't take it away from him_ -

A woman's voice talking calmly in Russian.

Both Soldiers are panting.

\--

" _What the fuck just happened_?" Fury yells from her left, but she keeps up the steady stream of calm words, "I thought the triggers were removed. _How did this happen_?"

She stops for a moment to reply, "It wasn't a trigger," keeping her eyes focused on the display before them.

Rogers and Barnes (The Soldier and The Winter Soldier) are back to back in the middle of Barnes' cell, twenty highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agents laid out in disarray around them. They're both breathing hard and for that she's grateful (because it means they're not up to full strength. This could have gotten so much more worse), but it's going to take a while to get them back to the point where they can respond to talking.

Fury's silent for a moment, gaze intent on the cell. "If it wasn't a trigger," he says slowly, "Then what was it? They took out twenty of our covert attack squad in _two minutes_ and they're not even back to _full strength yet_."

"It was..." Clint trails off. He sounds faint, but she can't afford to look, she finally got Barnes to make eye contact. This will take a few more minutes. " _Wild_ ," he finally comes up with. She can hear the click in his swallow. "Unhinged, even. I mean, I saw some training in there but the rest was...I don't want to say Wolverine, but I want to say Wolverine. That was animalistic and  _desperate_. Even if it _was_ a trigger, I can't think of a single professional scenario aside from a kamikaze hit where it might actually be useful and still keep them alive. What are you saying to him Nat? Because it seems to be working."

She decides to switch to English then. Rogers tenses slightly, but they're both looking at her now.

"You're at S.H.I.E.L.D. There is no chair. There is no cryotube. It is 2014. Your names are Steven Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes. Your rank number is-"

" _32557038,_ " Barnes cuts in quietly, bloody fists lowering slightly, " _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th. Rank 32557038_." He repeats it quietly to himself a few more times before something in his eyes changes and he looks behind himself, turning slowly to wrap a hand gently but firmly around Rogers' left wrist. She can see Rogers' body relax minutely before his gaze even makes it down to the point of contact.

Good, she can work with this.

"Tell him," she prompts gently, keeping her voice calm and measured. They're not quite walking on eggshells, but it's a close thing.

" _Your name is Steven Grant Rogers_ ," she hears Barnes say, a little quieter, " _Steve,_ **_Steve_**."

Rogers blinks once, twice before his eyes dart up to Barnes' face, mouth pressing in a firm line. He says something in English too quiet for her to hear, but his body looks as loose as he's going to get it.

"We're going to come in and remove the agents," she darts a look at Fury, who nods, "Please step away from them."

Rogers is immediate to comply, eyes down and staring at the carnage around them. Barnes keeps his grip on Rogers' wrist as he moves with him, glancing at the bodies once before returning his focus to Rogers.

\--

It takes them ten minutes to get all of the fallen agents out ( _ten minutes and eighteen seconds_ ), and when they're done, Fury looks like he's going to demand that they be separated _again_ ( _his chest constricts_ ) before a few short words that he can't hear from Natasha hold him back ( _he lets out a quiet breath of air_ ). The wall stays down. He keeps his grip on The Soldier- _Steve_. The minute tremors he felt through his hand on Steve have stopped, that only means The Soldier's- _Steve's_ gotten a better handle on himself.

The thing coiling in his gut has eased somewhat, but it's still there, very slowly building back up. He calculates they have at least a day before anything happens again.

But, for once, he can really _breathe_.

His mind's the quietest it's been since he got it back.

\--

He's replaying it over and over in his head, even when the Winter Soldier- _Bucky_ makes him sit in the far corner, never letting go of his wrist ( _it's a rare comfort, a luxury, a grounding weight and **fuck** he needs it_ ).

But what unnerves him isn't the blood or the bodies, it's the fact that the blood and the bodies _don't_ unnerve him that unnerves him. He remembers feeling something once in sepia toned memories. They're worn at the edges, but he _remembers_.

But this time, this time he felt little to nothing. The agents were in the way, he needed to get to the something pulling at him, that's all that had mattered. It's been a while since he's felt it, but that makes him _afraid_. He can feel it sharply now, unlike before, fear, and this fear goes so deep he's not sure how to deal with it. Part of him has already cataloged it, a smaller part of him is trying to understand it, but the largest part of him is trying to force it away because it was _necessary._ He _had_ to do it, _he had to get to_ -

He lets out a breath.

He's calmer now, his insides aren't clenching like a sea of knots and Bucky's ( _the Winter Soldier- **Bucky**_ ) here and Steve (The Soldier _\- Steve_ ) can feel him, can smell him, and it's calming, it's animal and it's _calming_. Just another part of himself that goes into the giant messed up puzzle that is _him_. It's not even sexual, not this time ( _training, third time, punched in the face twice, busted lip, hard heat against his hip where The Winter Soldier has straddled him, loud displeased orders, but **want**_ \- ), it's just...

The only word that comes to mind feels profound and old, and he doesn't want to think about it right now.

He closes his eyes as he holds his breath and counts to ten, then lets it out slow. His psychologist told him to try that. Bucky's warmth is still seeping through his skin.

There's the sound of a door _shushing_ closed.


	18. Laugh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headache went away so I could wriiiiite AHHHH YESSS. Also this might be longer than the last chapter. They always feel long when I write them and then I look at them after they're posted and think "Oh. Well then." I'd like the chapters to be longer so that might start happening. I'll try. Thank you for reading guys. Initially I was just writing this for myself because I had a need and feels but I'm really glad you guys seems to like it too, that's awesome. <3 
> 
> I've essentially kidnapped my mother's laptop because of this story I feel like I should feel more terrible about this than I do.
> 
> Also I think me and parenthesis need to have a talk. Do those bother you guys? They kind of just come out and I like using them for brief snatches of memory and thoughts without having to do a whole paragraph on the actual thing.

"So...They almost kill each other and killed five agents trying to break up _whatever_ was going on and you're not going to put them in their own separate corners?" Tony asks incredulously. He went back to the Tower for a few days to see Pepper and bury himself in his workshop while he tried to reconcile new facts, so he doesn't look as frazzled as he did yesterday, but he still looks like he could use a week's worth of sleep.

Fury sighs and looks at Natasha. That's her cue.

"It wasn't a trigger," she says, "And I don't believe they were intending to kill one another."

Tony lets out a snort, he's seen the footage. "Yeah, because they were definitely just trying to make out like a couple of _horny teenagers_ ," he replies sarcastically, "If that wasn't them trying to kill each other, then what was it?"

Natasha crosses her arms over her chest. It's as much a gesture of defense as it is offense. "A few things," she starts, tone level. Tony stands a little straighter. He must have realized he's stepped on a few toes. "For starters: an irregular case of touch deprivation. They've each spoken with their psychologists the two days it's been since the incident and the psychologists have confirmed this. There have been a variety of styles of kills in their missions, but most of them have been long range or quick dispatch. Aside from the pokes and prods, handling and training they've had from their owners, they haven't had much physical human contact, nothing that isn't associated with pain and violence. Which leads me to my next theory."

Tony's face contorts slightly, going a little pinched. He knows where she's going with this. "Are you saying, what? They beat the hell out of each other to... _feel?_ "

Natasha nods. Tony's lips thin. "What we saw was them expressing themselves in the only way they really know how. Their leashes were kept tight while they were with the Red Room and the KGB where they trained, and who knows, countless other handlers. They completed missions and slept in between memory wipes. Almost everything was taken from them. As two weapons, violence is all they really know." Her voice is softer than she means it to be towards the end. Tony looks like he wants to say something but she hardens her gaze and he closes his mouth.

"So what do we do now?" Tony asks, looking from her to Fury then back again. Out of all of them, she has the most experience dealing with what the Soldiers are going through, but there's no guide book on how to handle it.

"We talk with the psychologists, get their feedback on Rogers' and Barnes' current state of mind," Fury says after a moment, casting a look to Natasha, "Do what you can. See if you can help devise a way to change things. If they stay as they are..."

She gives a short nod before leaving the office, heading for the psychiatry floors. She has red in her ledger and she needs to wipe it clean.

In the end, it's Barton that helps her come up with a few more ideas.

\--

He's jolted awake by a jostle and a quiet, choked-off sound, eyes snapping open and to attention. His gaze darts around the room before settling to his right.

Steve's eyes are wide and trained unseeingly on his lap, breath coming in harsh, quiet gasps. Bucky (Winter Soldier) can feel the tremors vibrating through his right arm where they're pressed together. His fingers slide in between Steve's and he grips his hand tightly, pressing his fingernails into Steve's (the Soldier's) flesh. Blue eyes snap up to his and he can see the Soldier's (Steve's) throat bob in a swallow before lowering his head down to rest the side of his face against Bucky's arm. Bucky feels the breath Steve takes in deep then lets it out slow and quiet. The tremors take a few minutes to stop.

Bucky (the Winter Soldier) doesn't ask what he was dreaming about, he doesn't really need to. They share a lot of the same memories, and for the ones that they don't, well, the specifics might be different but it's all mostly the same: recon, setup, complete the mission ( _eliminate the target, finish the objective_ ). Besides, even with his memories returned, Steve still doesn't talk much. Hell, _he_ doesn't talk much, but Steve's barely said more than a few words at a time in as many days, and that's just to _him_. He's talked more to his assigned psychologist, Bucky's sure, but afterwards, it looks like he had to wrench the words out of himself to do it. The old him would be worried, but as it stands now, he understands. Steve's always said more with his eyes, anyway, and they don't need to speak any of the vocal languages they know to talk to each other.

Steve's pressed tight to the corner of his own cell while Bucky acts as a barrier to the world, right arm pressed against Steve's left while his own left acts as a metal shield. He almost wants to laugh at the irony of that, but it's not funny. Even now he's still acting as Steve's protector - with an arm forced on him by _Hydra_ \- even though he still hasn't a fucking idea what he's doing and he's not much better off than Steve is. Of the two of them, he thinks he's probably the most well adjusted to everything that's going on, to the memories, but with what he finally told his psychologist today it makes sense.

They rode Steve harder than they did him, he knows it, he's said as much, whether it was out of fear for who he was, or the fact that his healing was higher because he had the original form of the serum created by Erskine coursing through his veins (unlike the bits and pieces and _twisted **scraps**_ of a similar one coursing through _his_ ) they'd dug into him harder. The voltages were higher and lasted longer when he was in the chair, they beat him more often, they'd sweet talked him more elaborately and ordered him around more harshly to try and make his submission more lasting, they'd kept them both under enough of a microscope that they could barely touch one another without someone dragging them apart one way or another ( _harsh, angry Russian- German- steel gazes and cold looks, three armed guards watching them at almost all times. Hands pulling_ ). Their current captors ( _they're trying to help_ \- _Right. Like they're not looking to get something **out** of this_ ) keep the wall between them down most of the time, now, except for the times when Steve ( _the Soldier_ ) and Bucky ( _the Winter Soldier_ ) start digging their nails in too deep into each other's flesh and the beasts inside them start coiling up tight. And it's better than it was ( _so much better_ ), but it's not enough.

Fingernails dig roughly into the hand he has gripping Steve's and he shoves his face into the top of Steve's head, lets out a breath.

 _It's not enough_.

\--

He decides to ignore how long he's been asleep this time ( _one hour, twenty-two minutes- **stop**_ ) and opens his eyes, still seeing the snow ( _falling over a baseball stadium, falling from the ceiling of a small apartment in Brooklyn-_ ) from his dream. There's a weight on top of his head and his mind flashes to electricity as his body tenses before the scent registers and he forces himself to relax into the shoulder he's got his cheek pressed into ( _not the chair. Bucky- Winter Soldier_ ). He blinks a few times, the curtain of his hair becoming clear ( _not snow falling_ -) and his eyes focusing into view. He can just see the ends of brown near the top of his forehead mingling with the blonde of his bangs. It makes him want to smile but his lips won't move. _What woke him_ -

A twitch shudders through his side and his body tenses automatically as his breath stills, and he has to force himself to relax _again_ ( _they're not with the Red Room, they're not with the Red Room_ \- ). A sharper twitch-turned-jolt and his body reacts and then Bucky's bolting upright and _screaming_.

His back straightens and he quickly lifts his head off of the Winter Soldier's ( _Bucky's_ ) shoulder, tightening the grip he's got on Bucky's ( _the Winter Soldier's_ \- ) hand. There's sweat on Bucky's forehead and his eyebrows are pulled together. He's still screaming (no words, just _sound_ ), trying to jerk his hand out of Steve's grasp as he twists to lash out with his left arm. Steve ( _the Soldier_ ) doesn't let go, but he does dodge his head to the right just as the metal fist is about to hit his nose on a swing. It collides with the concrete wall behind him instead once, twice ( _electronic whirring- panels shifting to strengthen the hit_ -  _ **crack** \- deep, slight dust: the wall_) before he grabs it with his right hand at the wrist to stop it from further damaging the wall so they don't get into trouble ( ** _punished, punished_** \- _No. Prevent damage from Bucky_ \- _**Winter Soldier-** **More important**_ \- ).

"Bucky- _Bucky_!" he shouts, voice rough with disuse, digging his nails into Bucky's flesh and blood hand where he's kept their fingers locked together throughout Bucky's thrashing.

The screams cut off as Bucky's eyes fly open, darting around the room in a quick, wild scan before landing on Steve, and then Bucky's curling inward on himself, head hanging low over his lap as he breathes heavily. His grip tightens on Steve's. They've both woken like this before - Bucky's more free with his screams than Steve - so Steve's not surprised, but it makes part of his heart hurt. He waits a few moments before trying to talk.

"Bucky." Nothing. He switches to Russian. " _Winter Soldier_." Bucky tenses and tries to pull his hand away again, so Steve grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in with it, also using the hand in Bucky's palm to drag him close and press his face into Steve's neck.

Bucky freezes and stays tense for a few seconds before he takes in the familiar smell in a long inhale, letting it out in a slow breath as he tries to calm his breathing. He shoves his nose in closer and Steve can feel the sweat on Bucky's forehead pressed against the bottom of his jaw, the contact and familiar smells calming them both.

\--

His breathing eventually slows back to normal after a few minutes but he doesn't move, keeps his nose pressed into Steve's neck. He shifts his head slightly higher so the stubble on Steve's jaw scratches against his forehead. It's rough and _texture_ and it relaxes him, as much as he _can_ relax.

They don't say anything. He doesn't apologize for screaming his lungs out over blood and children in his nightmares, or almost punching Steve in the face with enough force to literally bash his skull in ( _Steve's better than that, more skilled than to let himself get hit, Bucky knows_ ), just like Steve won't apologize for the choked off screams of his own or almost breaking Bucky's shin when he'd lashed out with a foot the other night (at least he's pretty sure it was night; the lights were down low but that doesn't tell him much). They'll talk about it to their psychologists because it's either that or stay locked away like they'd be locking themselves inside their bodies, trapped in cages for the rest of whatever lives they have left.

Part of him wants to stay, keep him and Steve locked up in here like animals and never see anything else _ever again_ , but aside from the constant voice in the back of his head telling him they'll take Steve away from him if they _do that_ ( _punishment, punishment; he's **mine**_ \- ), a larger part of him wants to see things again: the sun, the sky, the birds, the clouds, the water, the grass, _Brooklyn_ \- without the tint of orders and objectives and _focus on the mission_ - He's tired of being locked up and kept away from the world and from himself. It's like being stuck in that damn cryotube ( _and he hated it so much he came to love it, spent so much time in it that it became a **part** of him, and how fucked up is **that**_ ), except in here there's no ice on his body, only in his mind.

So when he hears a door open with his enhanced hearing and hears Natalia's ( _Natasha, she's Natasha now_ ) voice, he listens and opens his eyes - angles his head enough that he can see her but doesn't pull away from Steve, and he'll do as she asks ( _obey obey **obey**_ \- **Choose. I** **t's decisions now** ).

Basketball. It's the blonde man's ( _Barton, he finally said his name is-_   _"Call me Clint or Barton, or Hawkeye, I don't care which"_ -) idea, and it's not his sport but he knows how it's played. She says it's a trial run to see how they handle being close together with others and each other.

It's a test.

\--

" _Is this test_ ," Steve asks, low and quiet and in Russian so only he can hear, their fingers still locked together.

Bucky ( _Winter Soldier_ ) doesn't look at him but he lets one of his fingers twitch slightly where they're locked together between the two of them, a silent _'yes'._

They're being led to a gym by more armed guards in black with Natasha ( _Natalia_ ) and Clint ( _Barton, Hawkeye_ ) in front of them, leading the way. This may not be the Red Room or Hydra, but old habits die hard, and he doesn't exactly trust them, nor want them to hear all of his and Steve's words.

Steve's expression doesn't shift, but one of his own fingers gives a slight twitch in return, confirmation in this language of theirs. It's not as old as they are, but they've had a lot of practice with it, and they don't have to start from scratch _now_ like they had to most of the time ( _memories, they can remember it **now** - _)

They're both keeping track of the route ( _twenty feet straight, right, elevator up one floor, right, thirty feet straight, count the steps_ \- ) whether they'll be able to use the information or not ( _"Memorize everything in case something goes wrong; you're caught, you're dead"_ ) and the amalgamated parts of him that show wonder at all of this new technology is half expecting the gym to look high tech and state of the art and futuristic ( _"Why? Where are we going?" "To the future"_ ).

It's not. It's just a regular looking gym: shinier, newer, but nothing out of the ordinary ( _but he doesn't trust that there aren't things hidden in plain view_ ). They stop just inside of the black line lining the gym floor and Natasha (Natalia) turns around. Barton heads over to an equipment room off to the left.

" _Welcome to the future_ ," he mumbles quietly. Steve's expression goes slightly pained for a moment but his lips give a small twitch. It's the closest Steve's come to smiling in over seventy years. Bucky counts it as a win.

Natasha smirks, but there's something a little softer in her eyes that says she _knows_.

\--

Barton, it turns out, is a good shot, a _great_ shot, and as nimble as he looks, more even. He notices Bucky's trigger finger twitch sometimes when the ball goes through the hoop. Part of him briefly wonders if they'll get to have that competition later ( _weapons, knives, guns, metal_ \- He misses his shield).

Halfway through the game, they have to take a break because Steve's getting more and more tense and Bucky's automatically responding to him and their blocks are getting rougher and _harder_. Natasha (he's curious about her) makes them take a fifteen minute 'time-out' ( _"I don't want you bleeding all over the floor. I'll be the one to clean it up"_ ) so they can pull themselves back together from opposite ends of the room. The distance feels like it stretches him thin but also gives him a chance to breathe (and that's muddled and confusing with no clear _directive_ \- direction to take and of course there isn't because this is _his life_ ).

They resume the game and just barely lose even with their enhancements ( _sixty-three percent functionality- Winter Soldier: sixty percent_ ) but they're all panting and sweaty by the end of it. Part of him unwinds, another part is satisfied enough ( _Natasha's smiling slightly. Insufficient method to calculate judgement on_ ) with the test results to deem it passable but not entirely accepted ( _orders._   _"Harder. You must be better than this. You must be **faster** "_).

He misses baseball.

The bodies in black ( _men, agents, soldiers_ ) lead them back to the showers before their cells ( _cages_ ) first and they don't get privacy ( _can't be afforded privacy_ ).

Steve strips down methodically, torn for a moment between folding the clothes and letting them drop to the floor ( _it's a fight, but he makes himself fold them instead_ ).

He follows Bucky (Winter Soldier) into the showers, stepping on Bucky's discarded clothes on the way ( _they made the Winter Soldier to be neat, organized, **clinical** - but Bucky's always been messy_ ).

He turns the water on as hot as it will go, can feel it in his bones but it doesn't go deep enough.

He can feel the ice inside of him, still frozen and unyielding but cracked. It's something.

Steve's in the process of washing his hair when he feels more than sees Bucky ease himself under the same shower spray. He doesn't move, just lets their flesh press together as they share the same space. It feels like a puzzle piece slotting back into place every time they re-enter one another's immediate orbit. He remembers everything, and in all of that time there's been very little of it spent without Bucky right next to him, anything else would feel _wrong_.

Bucky's hands are slow (it's caution they both have to use), reaching up to slide his fingers through Steve's hair. He scrubs gently, fingertips digging into Steve's scalp slightly and massaging. Steve forces his body to remain relaxed until he really is, leaning his head into the touch and closing his eyes. He can feel eyes on them and it always sends a warning up his spine, but he decides to ignore it ( _please, just this once_ \- ).

Steve reaches over for the small shampoo bottle and squeezes the rest out into his hand (Clint said they were,  _"hotel sized like a minibar of soap,"_ with a playful smirk on his face). He sets the empty bottle back down before rubbing his palms together, slowly, reaching up after a moment with the same caution Bucky had showed to slowly slide his own fingers through brown hair, lathering up the strands. Bucky arches towards him slightly like a cat, eyelids fluttering shut in slight pleasure, a shudder running through his body that Steve feels dart along his arms and against his scalp, wherever he and Bucky are touching.

After a couple minutes of fingers on scalps and shampoo in hair, they lean forward almost in perfect time, foreheads resting together with closed eyes as they wash out the chemicals, sweat, and grime.

There are eyes on them and guns ten feet away and they're something like kept pets, but for the first time in seventy years warmth seeps through the cracks in the ice in his mind and in his chest and the briefest, quietest sound breeches his lips, shortly replied by one longer but just as equally quiet.

For the first time in seventy years, they _laugh_.


	19. Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. SO. The amazing awesome wonderful aprofessorstale offered to try and beta for me, and I don't know if she wants to do more than this chapter (but I'd totally be cool with it if you want to it's actually really helpful and you're awesome) so if she does the posting might slow down a bit, because I've got three more chapters kind of written after this one but before I didn't have anyone but myself checking the chapters over before biting the bullet and posting (hence the rapid-fire). So yes, just letting you guys know the posting might slow down a little if she decides she wants to keep betaing the story but I'm cool with it and I hope guys are too. 
> 
> Also some humor slipped in in this chapter and I figured you guys could probably use a reprieve from all of the doom and gloom that has been going on, so I hope you don't mind and actually get a laugh out of it. Enjoy!

Tony left after talking with Natasha and Fury. He'd planned to go down and see Rogers and Barnes again ( _worked up the courage_ ) but he couldn't, not yet. So instead, he went back to Avengers Tower (still under construction; it's a work in progress) and worked until Pepper came home, who took one look at him and then pried him away with gentle hands and an unyielding, understanding stare (and he loves her for it, he does). He meant to go back the next day, but, well, he wanted to spend time with Pepper since she scheduled a couple days off, and then he was working on a new suit, and then a few dozen parts came in for a car he was _also_ working on, and-

Yeah, he put it off. But he's here now, so he swallows down whatever anxiety is trying to bubble its way up his throat and heads down with Natasha to the cells. She doesn't look at him the whole way down. He's grateful.

When they pass the door to the short hallway that leads into the room holding the cells, the first thing he hears is Clint _laughing_. Actually, he's not sure if it could be called laughter, it sounds more like Clint's wheezing so hard he can't drag in enough air to actually breathe.

Sure enough, when they clear the small hall Clint's bent over on the bench wheezing and Barnes is sitting next to Rogers with his knees up and his wrists resting on the tops with a smirk (an actual _smirk._ It throws Tony for a loop) on his face. Rogers has got his legs crossed and his back ramrod straight with his hair in his face, expression, from what Tony can see, as blank as ever, but that's nothing new. It makes him twinge a little inside. Of the two of them, he would have thought Rogers would be the one showing more expressions based on the reels his dad kept (that he did not go over and over when he was a teenager trying to figure out where _he_ went wrong), but he's not, and Tony's not sure what to think about that.

Naturally, it's Rogers that notices him first and slight as it is, Tony can see the smallest of flinches before the man sits a little straighter (and it pains Tony's back just _looking_ at him half the time). Barnes catches the movement, probably would have anyway even if they weren't practically glued together, and his eyes catch on Tony, the smirk sliding right off his face like falling water. Clint catches on shortly after when he finally sits up, eyes darting from the men in the cells to their current line of sight. He's still a little out of breath when he unfolds himself from the bench and makes his way over, face red from laughing and tears on his lashes.

"Right. I'll just, yeah." And then Clint's gone with a brief nod in Barnes' direction and Natasha's following him (she's going to the monitor room, he knows it), and then they're left alone.

Rogers turns his head to look at Barnes and they have some conversation Tony's not versed in deciphering with deep, soulful looks and slight inclinations or drops of the head. After a moment, Barnes casts one more look at Tony before rising to his feet (a tiger locked in a cage comes to Tony's mind, the grace is terrifying) and moving back to his cell. The glass wall goes up and the stone wall comes down.

Tony stands there awkwardly for a moment before forcing himself forward, Rogers staring right at him, and if anyone who's seen him these days says his stare couldn't crumble mountains they would be _lying_. It's a cross between an ice cold, thousand-yard stare and a depth of emotion so deep he can't even really begin to sort through it. His steps falter briefly but he forces himself to keep going and keep looking back, as hard as that is to do.

He stops a few feet from the floor to ceiling wall keeping Rogers in and visitors out and wracks his brain for something to say, somewhere to even start going through the swirling thoughts in his head. Naturally, Tony's brain belonging to Tony, the first thing he says is-

"My name is Anthony Edward Stark. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

And it is the _worst thing_ \- okay, not the worst, but it's definitely up there - to say to the guy who literally _did_ kill your father and probably has so much _guilt_ wrapped up in that chia-pet head of his that you could drown a continent (thanks a lot for trying to lighten the, mood brain. No really, give yourself a medal, you _deserve it_ ). And the worst part is, all Rogers does is close his eyes and give a slight nod, like he's accepted this judgement and won't put up a fight. No wonder he had Barnes leave his cell. Tony's seen enough footage, and he's under no illusions on why they only eat when they can see each other. Some have probably passed it off as comfort, which, yeah, that's there too, but he knows the real reason is because if they're going to be poisoned they're going out together. If only one of them dies the other will know and he's sure they'll be quick to follow. If neither of them dies then they'll still know that they're both living together another day. It's comfort, yeah, but one of the worst kind. Barnes must be trying not to lose his shit in the other cell, it took a lot to leave Rogers alone for this. He won't waste that effort.

Tony lets out a fast breath as he steps closer, stopping a few inches away and sitting cross legged on the floor. "No that’s- it wasn't- I was quoting a movie. I'm not really going to kill you."

Rogers opens his eyes and looks at him. Tony would say he looks the type of confused and anguished most young, starving artists could only ever dream of achieving, if he was sure enough of his own skill at reading the man's face. Tony can read people, yeah, but Rogers is a whole different ball game, him and Barnes both.

"I know it wasn't your decision. Or at least," Tony lets out a sigh, "Not a decision you had much control over."

Rogers doesn't say anything and Tony's sure he won't until-

"I remember." It's rough, in English. Rogers hasn't used his voice much. "I remember him talking about shields and fondue. I remember him flying me to the border of Austria. I remember him talking to me about materials for my _suit._ " Rogers' hands squeeze into fists on the tops of his knees (the whole ' _being Captain America turned into everything you fought against_ ' is still something Rogers can't quite seem deal with. Not that Tony can blame him). Tony tries to breathe. "I remember his car coming around a corner - _sixty miles per hour, angle: eighty degrees. Adjust scope two degrees to the right_ \- I remember the breath out, the recoil, tires screeching-"

" _Stop!_ "

Rogers goes silent, fists clenched tight, knuckles white. They're both breathing a little fast.

Rogers (and the Soldier, because that wasn't just Steve talking _or_ the Soldier, they're the _same person-_ ) regains his composure first, fuck, he's trained to, but Tony's takes a few minutes longer, trying to pull his mind and emotions back into some sort of order. He can do this, _he can do this_.

"...I'm not saying I don't blame you for you it," Tony says after he's calmed himself down, looking at Rogers again and making sure Rogers is looking back, "I'm not saying there isn't some part of me that hates you for it. But I know, I _know_ the blame shouldn't rest on you. I know it doesn't." He pauses. "It's hard, being human, isn't it," he finishes quietly.

Rogers just stares at him for a few more minutes before giving a slight nod, eyes locking on his fists, taking a moment before he forces them to uncurl, fingers spread out and relaxed on the tops of his knees (he doesn't for a _moment_ believe Rogers is _actually_ relaxed).

"I remember everything. I remember feeling _alive_ and feeling like a slab of _stone_ and _ice._ " Rogers has to clear his throat. He's not used to talking that much. This is the most emotion Tony's seen from him and the most he's talked to anyone other than his psychologist _at all._  "...And I don't know what to do. I don't- _I don't know what to do_." They're both quiet for a moment, Rogers still staring at his hands and Tony watching him. Finally,

"What do you want to do?"

Rogers eyes snap up and Tony can actually see the surprise on his face. It's progress.

Rogers' mouth didn't drop open but Tony can see his jaw working, trying to process the question and come to an answer. It takes a solid ten minutes for him to finally reply.

"I want... _I want_ ," he confirms, more to himself than Tony before continuing, "I want to go outside. I want to see a baseball game. I want to feel the grass beneath me without a rifle at my shoulder. I want Bucky to laugh. _I_ want to laugh." He looks raw after he says it, the broken parts of him showing through in a rare moment and the unbroken parts an even rarer one. It makes Tony smile for the first time since they've been in the same room together. The hurt is still there, whether he was close to his father or not it was still his _dad_ \- but he won't hold it against Rogers forever, he knows he won't.

"Then do it," Tony replies, smile stretching a little wider, "Sort yourselves out and then take Barnes to a baseball game. Hell, take him to the park and roll around in the grass. Have a snowball fight in the winter. Eat hot dogs on street corners of New York. But _do it_  because it's what _you_ want. Don't let shit stop you, that's practically my life motto."

Rogers doesn't smile, Tony doesn't take that personally, regardless of the awesome speech he just gave (he meant every word, he's not _that_ much of an asshole), but something does shift in Rogers then, he can almost see it, and then there are tears streaming down Rogers' face and his back is finally released from it's painful position. He's got hair blocking his face from view but he gives the slightest nod, and Tony can hear a soft, "Thank you."

He just inspired Captain America, Steve fucking Rogers, to live. He'll take it.

\--

He's just gotten up off the floor when Natasha (and he knows it's Natasha because she's got the timing of a poised snake) lifts and lowers the cement and glass walls between the cells. Barnes practically flies into the room, since he was apparently positioned as close to the wall as he could get, and takes stock of Rogers. Tony ends up on the receiving end of the coldest glare he's ever seen in his life before Rogers says something too low for him to hear and Barnes looks at him, then Tony, then back at Rogers with, not quite understanding, but he knows the glare's no longer necessary (Tony lets out a breath. He doesn't want to be on either of their hit lists thank you very much. Two Starks was enough).

He's making his way back out of the room, feeling lighter about the whole thing than he has since this all started, when he stops in front of the small hall and turns halfway around, making sure Barnes knows he's looking at him. "I don't blame you either," he says loud enough for him to hear, and Barnes' eyes widen fractionally before he's nodding slightly and turning his face towards Rogers.

And then Tony leaves them alone.

He meets Natasha in the hall.

She doesn't say anything, but after a moment there's a slight up tilt to the corners of her mouth and she's leading the way out of the small hall, Tony blinking a few times before hurrying after her. They may have saved the world together, but the lot of them haven't _actually_ really spent that much time together, aside from the whole "fighting-aliens-coming-out-of-a-portal-in-the-sky" thing. He thinks maybe they might actually get along better than he was thinking they would, and it doesn't hurt to have the Black Widow in your corner.

Clint meets them in the elevator to take them up to the ground floor and shares a look with Natasha before he's got a quirk of a smile on his own lips. Four assassins in one day. He deserves a fucking brownie.

"So what were you laughing so hard about earlier?" Tony finally asks, "You sounded like you were dying, and if something was making you laugh that hard, I want in on it."

Clint's face starts turning red again and he looks like he's trying to hold back another laugh. He slaps a hand over his mouth when one eventually escapes.

After a long moment of trying to get his breathing under control, he finally looks at both of them. Natasha looks curious too.

"You know that cartoon show _Avatar?_ Not the live action for fuck's sake, do not even go there Tony," Clint cuts him off. Tony snaps his mouth shut but grins. "So I was trying to explain a joke to Barnes I found about it on the internet - yes, that one," Clint cuts off whatever smart remark Tony was about to make again, and Tony presses his lips together. He thinks he knows where this is going. Clint showed him the same joke when they were ordering shawarma. "Barnes, and I kid you not, says ' _And then the Fire Nation attacked_ ,' with the most completely fucking serious face, I mean, Winter Soldier level intensity, and _I just couldn't_ \- " He's laughing again and Tony's following right along. Natasha's smile is a little wider.

" _Please_ tell me you recorded it, for the sake of everything,  _ **please** tell me_ -" Tony's cut off by Clint's rapid nodding and Tony's laughing again. "When those two are re-introduced to the world, we are putting that on Youtube. Hell, we'll 'do it for the Vine'." And he says 'when' not 'if,' because he doesn't want to think about the alternative. Rogers and Barnes deserve better than that.

Natasha opens her mouth to say something when there's an explosion from a floor below them. _**S** **hit**. The ground floor_ -

"Is the Fire Nation attacking?!" Natasha punches Clint in the arm, hard.

Barton and Natasha's communication devices go off simultaneously, both answering Fury while JARVIS pings his own phone and he checks the screen.

"No, but Hydra is," Tony replies. All three of them share a look.

\--

"Hydra have infiltrated the ground floors, we have to assume they know where Barnes and Rogers are being held," Natasha says swiftly.

They work on prying the elevator doors open, the number on the left side of the wall says "-5" which isn't the _worst_ place to be, and at least that puts them only ten floors above Rogers and Barnes instead of the full _fifteen_ , but still-

"How would they even know they're here? Unless-" Clint cuts himself off. Natasha looks grim.

It's not rocket science to figure that out. Rogers and Barnes have been under tight, strict, _private_ lock down since they were caught on the streets. So scenario one: there's a mole or two in S.H.I.E.L.D. Scenario 2? He doesn't want to think about, because that means this just got a whole lot messier. It's hard to think it's that bad, anyway, though according to history, Hydra certainly lives up to their namesake and none of the three of them have the greatest track record for avoiding trouble, so it's hard to tell just how bad this could really be.

"Really?" Tony lets out after they get the doors open. They're not quite _at_ the underground fifth floor. The elevator’s stopped a little over halfway between floors four and five, and the actual doors to floor five are about three feet above their waists. If they get those open, they can hop up and squeeze through out onto the fifth floor itself, but-

"I've seen this horror movie. I've seen it at least twenty times and it never ends pretty," Clint says. At least _he_ understands. Tony nods emphatically.

"My head is too important to lose in a pair of elevator doors," Tony continues the line of thought. Natasha just gives them both a _look_. "What? Have you seen _Resident Evil_? Yeah, no thanks." Natasha rolls her eyes even though Clint's now giving his own emphatic nod.

"Though I'm way more skilled than Alice," Clint says as Natasha moves closer to the doors.

"It's either this, if the floor is clear, or sliding ten floors down a metal cable. Your choice," Natasha replies calmly. Well, when it's put like _that_.

They pry the underground fifth floor's doors open, an inch or so at first to scan the hall outside, then further when they find that it's clear.

"I need to stop at the armory," Natasha says quietly once they've all climbed out onto the fifth floor, keeping their eyes on the hall as they carefully and quietly make their way down to the corners at the end of it, "Clint, you head back down to Barnes and Rogers. Tony, cause a distraction." Clint's pressed to one corner of the hall and Natasha to the other. They've both got their guns out and held up close to their chests, ready to fire.

Clint nods before looking up, holstering his gun and motioning to Natasha. Natasha looks up too before she follows suit, lacing her fingers together as Clint raises his foot and settles his hands briefly on her shoulders. She gives him a boost up to a panel in the ceiling, and he disappears up into it before putting the panel back in place. Tony's eyebrows are practically up in his hairline. He looks at Natasha. She quirks her eyebrows.

He shakes his head slightly, lips twisting up into a wry smile. "Right then, one Iron Man party distraction coming right up."

Tony calls his suit while Natasha slips fast and quiet down the hall on the right.

\--

They both stiffen at the shocks of an explosion from somewhere _up_ , Bucky's got his right arm around Steve's shoulders and his left hand gently gripping Steve's right knee. Steve's face is buried in Bucky's neck and Bucky's got his jaw resting against the top of Steve's head. Steve's breaths were starting to even out just before the explosion hit, but he can hear them go still now, the arms he has around Bucky's midsection tightening to mirror his own. Steve told him most of what was said between him and Stark, quietly, in English, and he's got his own tear tracks dried down his cheeks. Tony's forgiveness was unexpected, and _Bucky_ wants things too. He wants the things Steve wants, he wants _more_ , he **_wants_**.

And he knows he doesn't want to go back. He knows Steve doesn't either.

They shift apart after a moment, but not far, and fluidly rise at the same time. They keep their steps even as they walk towards the glass wall of Steve's cell and stop about a foot away ( _one foot, two inches_ ) from the middle of it. It's hard to see down the hall up and to the right even from the closest corner of it, but they're pretty sure whatever guards are monitoring them are few ( _and possibly Hydra, they don't trust S.H.I.E.L.D.; they don't trust anyone_ ).

They turn their heads slightly towards one another to look at each other. Steve gives him a slight nod and then they're getting into mirrored positions, Steve's body angled sideways away from him with his right arm pulled back, Bucky's with his left, backs almost touching, Steve's flesh elbow just barely grazing metal. They were trained to work in synchronization, even if before the fall they already worked near seamlessly in tandem. Their training has its uses. 

The arm whirs and the metal panels shift, fortifying the arm for attack, and they move with their hips, driving themselves forward to punch the glass at the same time, winding up their bodies again just as fast.

Winter Soldier: seventy-three percent. Soldier: seventy-nine percent.

It'll have to do.

After three hits the glass cracks. Five hits and it comes cascading down like a wall of ice.

At the same time, they breathe.

\--

Tony's in his suit with JARVIS in his ear and there are a mess of agents _everywhere_. It's as bad as he was hoping it wouldn't be, it's Scenario 2.

Hydra is S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.H.I.E.L.D. is Hydra and he can't tell who's who so he just tries to distract them all, keep the fighting local to the lobby and the second floor even though it sounds like _all_ of the floors are a _mess_.

He's starting to get why Fury has trust issues.

\--

Clint gets to Underground Level 3 when he runs into a sea of agents, all collapsed all over the floor, but he can see the fight patterns in where their bodies lay. Rogers and Barnes have various scrapes and cuts littering their bodies and scrubs where they're standing barefoot near the middle of it all, but the disheveled look really doesn't make them look any less intimidating. He does a quick scan of the agents on the ground, most of the ones he can see are breathing so he decides to take that as a, hopefully, good sign. He catches Barnes' attention, who's still coiled and angled towards Rogers on Rogers' right, sees what Barnes is doing whether it's a subconscious thought or not. His arm's now the shield _and_ the gun.

"The Fire Nation," Clint says, but he doesn't crack a smile this time, he has to know, he doesn't think he can take them even if they're not fully back to strength.

Something in Barnes' eyes flickers and the ice recedes a little. "Is attacking, yeah. I'm never watching that show if it's this related to Hydra, unless the fuckers go down in the end."

It's a little slow and rough but it's enough and it's _Barnes,_ so Clint cracks a grin before his eyes shift to Rogers.

There's more ice in his eyes than Barnes', but one touch from The Winter Soldier and his gaze darts to Barnes and his body shifts slightly towards him like a mountain range bowing to a flower ( _albeit a stoic, metal armed, feared assassin kind of flower but Clint will take what he can get_ ). Rogers' eyes then dart up to Clint's and he gives a sharp nod, a silent, ' _We're good_ '.

Clint lets out a breath and then motions behind him. "Let's get you two out of here, I really want to see your guys' faces when they introduce Toph."

Rogers' expression doesn't change but his eyes manage to look a little confused when he mouths to Barnes, " _What's a Toph_."

Yeah, Clint will definitely take what he can get.

\--

" _All floors are compromised,_ " Natasha says in his comm link, voice controlled but he can hear the slight note of stress, " _Rendezvous in the lobby. Stark's there. He can clear a path._ "

Clint quietly relays the information to Barnes and Rogers as they stealthily make their way down a hall and come to a silent stop at the corner. He presses his back to the wall and takes a peek around it, leaning back after a second and signing "five" with his fingers. He gets two synced nods in response, then they're all three moving. Barnes and Rogers are freakishly quiet on their feet, even with the scrubs and long hair and slowly refilling masses. They each started taking to performing clinical work outs in their own cells last week, but they still haven't regained all of the muscle mass they had. Not that they're _small_ by any means.

The five agents go down without a sound and Clint takes a gun. Rogers and Barnes share a look before directing them both to Clint.

Right. That.

"You kill me before we have a competition on who's the better sniper and I will _haunt your ass_ ," Clint warns gravely, pointing at Barnes. Barnes gives him a smirk and a nod before he and Rogers bend down to pick up guns. Barnes takes two, Rogers takes one, and then they're moving again.

When they get to a door that leads out to the Triskelion's lobby, they stop. Clint can hear the sounds of gunfire and repulsors through the metal along with the occasional shout; he checks his comm. "Natasha, we're outside Door 3B," he says, back pressed near the door frame and arm touching lightly to the long, horizontal handle, ready to fling it open.

" _I'm on floor two_ ," Natasha replies, panting slightly through the comm, " _Making my way to the corner bridge. Tell Rogers I've got a present for him for not killing you_."

"Aw, 'Tasha, I didn't know you cared," Clint teases before relaying the message. Rogers doesn't smile but he does lower his head slightly to let Clint know he heard.

" _Shut up, Clint. Who else would kick your ass at Mahjong_."

" _That was one time_ -"

" _It was twice. On three_ -"

On three they're out the door, firing at anything that looks like a Hydra agent. Clint's aiming for non-vitals - he doesn't want to kill his own agents. He doesn't know if Barnes and Rogers are following the same idea, but he can't exactly worry about that right now.

They make it as far as the elevators before they get separated. Clint's stuck near a decimated indoor plant and a pillar, Barnes is doing some sort of parkour-back-flip off of one of the still standing lobby chairs while firing his guns, and Rogers somehow ended up somewhere in the middle of the room.

He doesn't hear it but Rogers must, because the shield comes flying from a second story, overhead walkway towards Rogers out of nowhere with Natasha dropping and rolling down the side of it soon after, quickly followed by the sound of flesh meeting metal and _everyone **freezes**_ -

There's exactly point-two seconds of silence before everyone who's Hydra is surging _forward_ , trying to converge on the center of the room. He can see Rogers getting a bit overwhelmed with another team rushing in from the floor above the lobby, and after a few moments he hears something that's a cross between a growl and a shout and then they're forcing Rogers down and-

Three people go flying from Barnes' flung out metal arm and then he's charging brutally efficiently into the fray, aiming for the middle of the room. Clint can hear him actually _growling_ and not for the first time he's glad he's not on the receiving end of _that_ and _oh_ -

No wonder Rogers was going down. He can just see him from his position and enough of the agents are converged in the center of the room that he can finally make his way over. Rogers is bleeding from his side (knife wound) and outer though (also knife wound), and there's a bullet hole in his shoulder and a few more cuts on his face. There's a ring of bodies around him but there's still too many active ones for him to handle on his own in the state he's in and-

Clint and Natasha start rapidly picking off the ones on the outer perimeter of the converged mass in the center of the room while Barnes decimates anything in his path. Tony's working on clearing the floor above theirs and Clint can practically _see_ the moment they can get out of this mess _they just have to **make it**_ -

It takes a few minutes that feel so much longer than they should be, but the agents in the lobby all go down except for the one left that Barnes is punching in the face (with his metal arm, Barton cringes) and sending unconscious (or possibly dead) to the floor.

" _Pick on someone your own size_ ," he growls out, and it's the first time he's sounded more like _Bucky_ than _Barnes_ or _The Winter Soldier_.

"I had'em on the ropes," Rogers grits out and he sounds like _Steve_.

"I don't know about you but I'm ready to split, you guys coming?" Tony breaks the silence, pointing a thumb towards the shattered glass remains of the lobby doors.

Steve picks himself up, shield on his right arm and Bucky covering his left and they _run_.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is compromised.


	20. A safe place

They practically hurl themselves into Tony's car, parked like a red gem in an oases of gray in front of the Triskelion. Tony's armor scatters to pieces and magnetizes itself to parts of the car's interior at his command when he opens the driver's side door. Natasha takes shotgun while Clint tries to help Barnes get Rogers into the backseat, and it'd probably go a lot faster if Barnes would quit _growling_ at him, but it's like Rogers is the pup and Barnes is the overprotective mother so Clint's not having much luck. Rogers doesn't really seem to be paying his wounds any attention though, which worries Tony, but now's not the time. Once they're all in he turns the key in the ignition and floors it, Clint closing the back door as they start speeding down the bridge out of the facility before any more Hydra troops show up.

The car's not really made to hold so many people, actually, it is meant to hold this  _exact_ number of people, but one super soldier bleeding all over the back seat is pushing it, _two_ just makes it uncomfortable. Clint's crammed up against Barnes' right side and trying his best to put as much physical space between them as possible, Barnes has stopped growling but the physical contact with Barton has set him on edge, and Rogers' side with the bullet holes in it is pressed up against the door, bleeding all over the upholstery.

Barnes is pressing his left hand against the stab wound in Rogers' side - the one that needs to be stopped the most - while his right is pressed against the wound on his leg. Rogers doesn't flinch or grimace, just leans slightly into the Winter Soldier's space and keeps his eyes almost unfocused on the back of Tony's seat. He's checked out for the most part, lost in whatever mess is going on inside his head. It was too soon for them to be interacting with more than a few people, and definitely too soon for combat. Tony's not entirely sure where their heads are at right now and he needs to get them someplace safe where they can assess that.

Once they're back in the city, speeding in the shadows of the tall buildings overhead, Tony eases up on the gas and brings the car down to the speed limit; better to blend in with the crowd than make yourself stand out like a sore thumb. Fortunately, it's sometime in the afternoon so traffic isn't that bad (for New York). Natasha's kept a grip on her guns and her eyes on the mirrors and front windows the whole drive, and Clint's half turned in the back seat to keep a look out through the rear half of the car. They're almost there when both Natasha and Clint seem to figure out where they're heading.

"The Tower?" Clint asks. Natasha glances at Tony before looking in the rear view mirror to give Barnes and Rogers an assessing look.

"I know," Tony starts, eyes darting to the rear view mirror to get a look at Barton's face turned toward him before going back to the road, "It's public, which could actually work in our favor. It's big, it's loud, it's also sporting the most up to date security system that I, by the way, designed myself." Tony changes lanes. "I won't get into the details, but it's the most secure building in _New York_ even _without_ all of the renovations finished, which can actually wait because all that's left as of this morning is the fine paint. No one in or out unless we say so."

He doesn't go into the details because Barnes and Rogers are listening even if they don't look it, and the last thing he needs is them figuring out the keys to the kingdom so they can leave whenever they please. Captives? Maybe a little, but he gets the feeling it's in everyone's best interest that they stay put for a while, so he's not going to have any help in them escaping should they feel inclined to.

Natasha thinks it over for a moment before giving a nod, Barton makes a small humming noise before it turns into the _Star Wars_ theme.

It's oddly fitting. Tony thinks he'd make a pretty good Han Solo if he does say so himself ( _which he does_ ).

"JARVIS," he says to the air as they near the Towers' parking garage entrance.

" _Sir?_ " comes the reply from the small screen set to the right of the steering wheel.

"No one in or out. Lock down protocol S7."

" _Yes, sir_."

The garage door slides open soon enough for him to speed in, closing swiftly behind them and locking shut once they're past the frame's motion sensors. He parks the car in its set spot in line with the rest of the others he owns and he pushes his door open, and they're all climbing out.

Well, most.

Tony walks the couple feet to the back and carefully opens the back door, wary of Rogers since last he checked he was leaning and bleeding all over it. Rogers practically falls to the ground before catching himself on the door frame with the hand of his wounded shoulder. Tony's about to reach out and help him before he stops himself. He knows that's not a good idea. He darts a look past Rogers and, sure enough, Barnes is staring at him like he's ready pounce. Great.

"Barnes, I know you're in there somewhere. We need to get Rogers inside and stop the bleeding," Tony tries. It's an understatement, Rogers is well on his way to painting the _back seat_ red.

Barnes doesn't move, just clenches his hands tighter against Rogers' wounds, leaned forward to follow Rogers' movement. Tony can't tell if he's stuck in some sort of assassin mode or regressing because of the toll of the combat on his precariously adjusting mind, but they don't have time for this.

" _Winter Soldier!_ " Natasha snaps out in Russian from the other side of the car. It's instantaneous: Barnes snaps to attention, straightening his posture enough to show he's listening while keeping his hands on the wounds and his expression shifts slightly, like he knows he's going to get punished for keeping his hands where they are and he's prepared to accept it. It's not a good idea, using commands, and Barnes' expression makes Tony's stomach twist, but they can't touch Rogers without losing either a _limb_ or their _life,_ and someone's going to die either way unless they _do_ something.

"The Soldier, Rogers, will die if we don't get him inside," Natasha switches back to English before flipping to Russian again, " _Repairs imperative. Understand?_ "

Barnes takes a second but gives a sharp nod, moving immediately to comply as Natasha comes around the back of the car. To the casual viewer, his touch is clinical and efficient when he gets Rogers' right arm around his shoulders and his left arm around his back, but Tony can see the gentleness in the touches, small but there. That Tony can see them at all and Barnes is showing it in front of others speaks volumes, even if he does expect to get wiped. The progress they've made so far might not have been completely lost.

Barnes gets Rogers out of the car, Rogers trying to take his own weight once he's on his feet, but Barnes still has to support most of it. Tony closes the car door and leads them inside.

\--

The elevator ride to the med floor is tense, the enclosed space putting both Rogers and Barnes on edge, made even worse when JARVIS updates Tony on the Tower's security. Barnes actually jumps when the voice comes out of nowhere, enough to jostle Steve, and Tony can't blame him. _He's_ used to it. Barnes? Not so much. Tony's pretty sure it's only Barnes' training and Steve bleeding all over the floor that keeps him from otherwise reacting. Tony says a silent, " _Thanks,_ " to Barnes’ Soviet training (one of the _only_ good things it's been used for, he's sure) and seventy plus years of a relationship when the doors slide open on the thirtieth floor and they're all still breathing. Tony leads the way with Barnes and Rogers following and Natasha stays closer to Tony's back than usual (he's grateful) as a precaution while Clint brings up the rear.

They sit Rogers down (well, _Barnes_ sits Rogers down) in one of the white medical chairs and Rogers' expression shuts down completely, which might not have been saying much two weeks ago but now Tony can see the difference. It's like when they first ran into him: blank, completely devoid of emotion. Barnes' expression is almost just as closed off, save for expectance ( _Tony's stomach knots again_ ), and if possible his body's held even _more_ stiff. Tony glances at Natasha, who's wearing a grim expression, but she addresses the Soldiers in Russian.

" _Repair: sanitize, close, bind_ ," her voice isn't sharp but she's keeping command in it. He's not exactly sure what she's saying but he can see a glimpse of her wishing she didn't have to. " _Return him to working order_."

Barnes- Or more so, _The Winter Soldier_ , just turns to the array of equipment Tony started setting out as soon it was within reach while Rogers puts the shield down long enough to mechanically remove his shirt and pants - no regard for his nudity - and gets to work. Now that Tony's got the chance to properly look at it up close, he's not sure what to feel, of the shield being all silver save for the red star in the middle, matching Barnes' metal arm in a horrific set. There's anger there, sure, and also mild horror. It's like seeing what they did to Rogers' mind laid out in physical form. The fact that Rogers and Barnes use both of their metal counterparts so often and so intimately just makes it _worse_. Tony makes his eyes look elsewhere.

He talks to Natasha quietly while she takes care of her wounds, keeping a watchful eye on the two while Clint does the same as The Winter Soldier cleans out Rogers' wounds, pulls out bullets and stitches, then binds with gauze. It's methodical and efficient but Tony can still see the gentleness in his touches, however brief they are, so he tries to stay positive about the whole thing. He also tries not to look at Rogers because _now_ is _definitely_ not the time to be checking out a _National Icon_. He doesn't know if he can look at the scars, either. He knows what it would take to cause them with Rogers' healing factor, and he doesn't think he can handle any more trauma for the day.

" _How do you think they're doing?_ " he whispers. He's not sure if their hearing is enhanced enough to hear him or if it even really matters at this point.

Natasha takes a while to answer, gaze assessing while she finishes wrapping a gash on her upper arm. "Their memories aren't going anywhere, but their programming is another matter." Tony's face scrunches up slightly.

"You don't think they'll flip out and try to kill us all do you? Because I just got this place near finished and I'd _really_ like to try out the pool I had installed on the roof, it's heated and the jets are great for turning it into a giant bubble bath," he tries to joke, to lighten the mood. If he doesn't, he feels like the serious air might just strangle him.

Natasha casts the assessing look in his direction before moving it back to the Soldiers, rotating a shoulder. 

"I may have some knowledge in this but I'm not all knowing. I can't know what they'll do. But," she says, just as quiet, pausing to think and looking sharp and dangerous, "The best I can do is say I don't think they'll try anything. Not today, anyway. The fighting kicked in their programming, but Rogers' wounds knocked it a little off course. Barnes won't do anything unless either we interfere with Rogers or Rogers does something."

Tony mulls it over for a few minutes, letting his gaze shift around the room in thought.

"All of the rooms are monitored," he finally returns, "I even had sensors put in because I'm a paranoid bastard at the best of times. Unless they somehow remove them all we'll know if anything happens."

Natasha turns thoughtful for a moment before nodding. It will suffice for now.

Once Rogers' wounds are all stitched and wrapped up (The Winter Soldier didn't tend to his own, they aren't nearly as bad, and Tony gets the feeling it'd take another _order_ for him to do it so none of them say anything) Tony leads them back to the elevator.

It's another tense ride, but they take it up to the thirty-fourth floor ("Residential 3"- _What?_  He was just being _prepared_ ) and step out into the hall. There's a short space of horizontal corridor before the double doors. He places his hand on the scanner set into the wall next to the door on the left and waits for the scanner to glow green. The doors slide open and they all step inside, Barnes still shouldering most of Rogers weight the whole way.

"You two can stay here," Tont starts, stopping a few feet from the couch in the center of the large room, "Normally I'd assign separate floors since there's about ten of them, one per person, but given what I know about you two and what's been going on, you two can share for now. There's two beds down the right, one's a main bedroom, the other's a guest, kitchen's in that open space across from the living room behind the couch. There's a room through that entryway on the left that's basically where the entertainment room would go if it were finished, and, well, there's New York," he gestures with an arm to the panoramic view beyond the kitchen. "The glass is made of sturdier stuff than the ones used on your cells and its lined with a multitude of sensors, so don't try anything." The entire back wall of the large apartment is made of the stuff, and the space is open enough that there's a panoramic view of New York City that you can see from every area of the apartment except the bedrooms, those are a little more walled off for privacy even though with a voice command you can dim the windows.

Barnes glances warily at said windows ( _right, sniper_ ), so Tony has JARVIS dim out the view to a pitch black. Barnes darts his eyes to him with a slight look that might be a "thanks" before moving Rogers over and setting him down on the large, long white couch, who lays out on his back and rests the shield within easy reach against the side of the couch up near his head. He keeps his eyes open.

Right.

Tony moves down the right hall leading to the bedrooms and steps into the first one in line, coming back out a minute later with two sets of clothes (gray sweatpants, navy t-shirts, _Iron Man_ in caps on the back- he does not have a problem, he doesn't) and sets them both on the long coffee table in front of the couch. He's careful to move slow and keep his movements obvious in case he accidentally comes off as a threat for getting too close. Barnes still tenses before Tony moves back towards the door.

"I think it goes without saying that you're being monitored," Tony adds, no point in lying, "But you're safe here. I've made this place into a better fortress than _S.H.I.E.L.D._ since the Loki incident. Try to get some rest, and just. Don't kill each other. Or us, in the mean time."

Natasha says something quiet with a hint of gentleness to her tone in Russian that Tony can't understand. Barnes' eyes dart briefly to hers before moving back to Rogers, giving a slight nod after a moment in return.

They leave the two alone and the door locks behind them when it closes.

Tony could use a drink. Or twelve.

\--

He sits silently on the table in front of the couch ( _five minutes, thirty-seven seconds_ ) after the door closes, hands on his knees and back straight as he stares at The Soldier ( _Steve_ ), blue eyes shift slightly to stare back.

It takes another five minutes ( _and twenty seconds_ ) for his back to curve, metal whirring and plates shifting from reinforced mode to standard as he slides his arms forward to rest his forearms on his knees. Steve (the Soldier) closes his eyes.

Bucky lets out a breath. His mind is a rumpled mess.

Part of him felt good to fight, to move, to _do_ something, to strike with vicious and brutal precision and have a reason to _function_ , to just shut down, follow training, and _move_. Another, much more aged part of him remembered back alleys and bloody lips and wishing Steve would quit giving him a _reason_ to _fight_ , just so that his friend would be bruise-free for a change. It's like trying to wrap a sheet of metal in cloth, none of his memories fit quite right, like an ill fitting suit with razor blades on the inside, they fit _together_ even less. It's difficult to navigate, and maybe he was getting used to living in a bubble with Steve ( _The Soldier_ ), too comfortable with the lack of... _mission_ , directive, the closest thing he's felt to _freedom_ in seventy years. Battle felt like a bad penny and an old friend at the same time, continuously turning up to give him a different sort of _peace_ at the worst possible moment.

And he could feel the programming, the _orders_ , in the fight, but he could also feel the panic, the worry, the _anger_ , the protective streak for Steve he has that's eighty-five years old and thirty miles long. He doesn't know how to reconcile the pieces of himself that have nothing to do with each other, that _can't_ _possibly_ fit together but somehow _have_ _to_. He doesn't know how to be a _person_ anymore, today made him wonder if he could ever be again. He was at one point, he remembers, but even then...Everything he is now came from _somewhere_. He might have been a person back then, but he was always a killer, too. The army showed him that, war showed him that, the knock-off serum _amplified_ that. Even for all that they've had done to them and he'd been made into, he's always been brutally efficient. 

He fell back on orders today, knows Natalia didn't deserve that. Fuck, never mind wanting things, how is he even supposed to _live_ if he can't _think_ for himself.

Moving after a moment, he pulls the scrub shirt up over his head and off and drops it onto the floor, shifting from side to side to slide the pants down and drop them down with it. Steve (The Soldier) cracks his eyes open at the sound, tracking him while Bucky goes into the kitchen and turns on the water. He cups his hands under the stream and splashes water over his face (it's warm), rubbing off some of the grit and dirt before shutting it off and walking back to the couch. He wasn't injured nearly as bad as Steve ( _The Soldier_ ) was, maintenance- medical treatment wasn't imperative.

Steve's got his eyes closed when he rounds the corner of the couch. For a moment he's tempted to slide in behind him, to prop his head back against the cushions on the arm of the couch and hold Steve (The Soldier) against him, bracket him in with his legs and keep him safe.

He remembers a time when they would have been beaten if they were seen like that, remembers seeing one of their neighbors in an alley getting beat for it before Steve was running into the fray and Bucky was following, like he always did. He remembers that he might have felt a little more for Steve and had an idea of what it was, but never thought more of it, pushed it aside. Steve was his best friend first, this great...person who wound up being wrapped up and turned into a _symbol_.

After the Hydra facility it wasn't possible, even if he'd wanted to act on it. He was Bucky, just James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes while Steve became Captain fucking America and that made it even worse. Then there was Peggy, and that wouldn't have stopped him if he'd wanted to go for it, even if she had been the first dame to look at Steve like he knows he probably did more than a few times. He wasn't blind. He flirted with Peggy for Steve, saw the way Steve looked at her, saw the way Steve looked at _him_ , like Bucky was some sort of hero himself even before the serum. That wasn't attraction, that was a younger brother looking up to an older one and wishing he could be just like him. There might have been more to it than that but he was never going to risk it, never thought himself worthy enough to even try. He probably should have. War strikes when it pleases and you have to take advantage and revel in whatever moments you _do_ find amidst all the blood and pain death.

But he didn't. Couldn't.

And he's not sure what they are now, maybe more in _need_ of each other than anything else, but with memories come feelings and feelings complicate things, _especially_ now that they're _seven decades_ _away_ from who they were when those feelings _started_.

He lets out the quietest of breaths before reaching down and pulling out a pair of the sweatpants, slipping them on before pulling out the other pair and moving to the end of the couch. Steve lifts his legs almost mechanically when he prompts him and he slides the pants up Steve's legs. Steve lifts his hips enough for Bucky to slip them all the way up and then his eyes are closing again. They're beyond the point of modesty, or shame, really, but putting on clothing seems like the thing to do and he can see Steve bleeding the same red as his targets in his mind, doesn't want to stop touching him yet to make sure he's still _alive_.

After, he moves over and sits on the floor to the right of the shield, in front of Steve's chest, back resting against the front of the couch and out of view of most of the windows (they make him uncomfortable, even with them dimmed to black, too much open space. They're practically targets, _again_ ). He hears Steve shift slightly behind him before he feels fingers lightly sifting through the ends of his hair. He closes his eyes to it.

He has no idea what they are to each other other than desperately clinging, two men turned monster machines out of time, but moments like this make him feel a little more human.

Bucky leans his head back, absorbs the _feeling_.

He'd gotten a brief look out at the New York City of today from the view outside the windows before they were dimmed. It's shinier than he remembers, taller, _grander_ , so much so that it is impersonal. Somehow, he thinks, Steve's fingers falling away after a moment as his breaths slow, it's fitting that they've all gotten a little colder, a little grander, a little taller. It feels like New York changed with them, and that makes an old part of him ache but the rest a little grateful. They left and came back as strangers to whom they once were, what they once were, if New York's done the same then maybe they can find a home somewhere in it all. 

Even monsters have homes and machines a place to rest.

He slows his breaths to match Steve's, letting the world fall away to ice and steel, a shield resting at his side and _him_  the only thing that's always tried to stay between the greatest person he's ever known and the world that keeps trying to tear that person apart.

When he dreams, he dreams of a small apartment in Brooklyn full of thawing ice.


	21. I dream of-

Snow falling. Large, fluffy flakes of white coating his blond hair, long lashes, clothes. He's one hundred and forty-five pounds lighter than he is, almost a foot shorter with bangs lightly swept across his forehead, that one piece always on the verge of getting into his left eye. He's in a white shirt and brown slacks, tie missing, and he's standing in a room, an old room, an old apartment from a lifetime or seven ago.

There's snow covering everything in a light layer of white. The bed's sheets are rumpled and strewn about, pillows in disarray and covered in snow, the table by the closed window the same. He walks over to it, steps not making a sound, and can just barely make out some of his old drawings under the white. He's reaching out to touch them before thinking about it, but stops to look up. There's nothing beyond the window, just solid white. It's only snowing inside the room.

A drop of color falls in front of his face and he looks down, retracting his ( _thin, long fingers; pale_ ) hand. There's a drop of red in the snow on top of one of the drawings. He reaches down and takes a hold of an edge, pulling the edge of the drawing up and giving it a slight shake to clear the snow.

It's of Bucky.

His eyes trail the lines, soft and sharp and scratchy. He lets out a breath; it's warm and fogs away in the air.

Bucky's smiling in the picture, younger than he remembers, hair shorter than it should be, clean shaven and eyes bright, a smile on his face. There's a smear of red from the drop on the drawing of Bucky's cheek.

The image shifts.

Bucky's still staring out at him from the page, eyes blank with no recognition, hair long and stubble on his face.

Tears suddenly well in his eyes.

He's so cold.

A sound catches his ear, it's far off and continuous, deep and mechanical. It's behind him so he turns around.

The other half of the apartment is gone and he's halfway in it and halfway on a train. the picture gets ripped out of his hand by the wind coming in the blasted open compartment. He rushes forward and now he's a hundred and forty-five pounds heavier and almost a foot taller and he's ripping his helmet off and running to climb out the opening because-

" _Bucky! Hold on!_ " he yells across the wind, shifting closer, closer as Bucky tries to move across himself with his grip on a railing. He reaches out-

The railing Bucky's holding onto gives out just before his does and their fingers brush as they both fall. Bucky's yelling but Steve grabs onto his hand and doesn't let go as they _fall, fall, fall_ -

They hit the ground.

He hears his body break.

He hears the sound of _Bucky's body break_.

The men in uniforms with guns stand over them; blood ( _Bucky's- **His** \- Bucky is always first_\- ), and the men are _pulling their fingers apart as they drag them away_ -

For the first time he can remember, he wakes up screaming.

\--

There are hands on him and he can smell Bucky (The Winter Soldier) and he's _right there_ , and it should be a comfort but it _isn't_ because they'll just pull them apart again and he won't remember Bucky and Bucky won't remember _him_ , will look at him with those dead eyes and move with sharp, precise motions and touch a boot against his while they line up their shots and they'll be dragged to the chair and he'll have to listen to Bucky scream and _he can't_ -

He lashes out, hits something (some _things_ ) solid and hears a crash and he's up and moving before he can think, vaulting over something soft ( _too soft_ ) and landing on floor that feels too new and hard and not enough like cement or snow and his hands are up and he's breathing hard. There's a sharp pain in his side and in his leg and warm sliding down his skin and seeping into his pants but he's been trained out of giving into physical pain (and emotional pain and _emotions_  and feeling _any damn thing at all_ \- )

" _Soldier!_ " snapped Russian. He recoils then immediately snaps up straight. He blinks a few times, the white clearing.

"Steve," softer, so much softer ( _too soft_ ); English (it's wrong it's right _he doesn't know anymore_ ). He flinches and recoils further. It's his name and _it's not his name_ but it's _his_ _name_ -

Bucky's standing on the other side of the couch in a defensive position and bleeding from the mouth with a broken table scattered around him and he looks...

He looks like he doesn't know what to do. Like he's scared and worried and trying to force it down and trying to keep himself from moving and Steve wants to pull him close and push him away, hold onto him to keep himself ( _both of them_ ) sane and rip him apart with seventy years worth of pent up ( _broken- pure- aching-_ ), forcefully ripped up and shoved down emotions and that thrills him but terrifies him more and he thinks he might finally be snapping, _losing it_ -

He doesn't know what to do, can't do it anymore. He's finally teetering off the edge and he doesn't know which way he's going and the room is too big and it's too warm and yet it's not enough and he's alone and he's never been alone and he hurt Bucky, he _hates_ hurting Bucky and he wants to hurt Bucky because he's so twisted and fucked up now and he has to _argue with **himself**_ about what's _right_ and what's _wrong_ when it used to be _so easy_ to tell and he's ninety pounds of nothing and two hundred and twenty pounds of power and he was _good_ and then he was _awful_ and he _just can't_ -

He runs.

He hears Bucky shout something but can't pay attention to what he says. The doors come down when he bowls right into them and then he's passed sliding doors and pushing buttons and he thinks he hears an electronic voice telling him his heart rate is dangerously high but he can't focus and his vision is starting to get blurry-

The doors open and he runs, runs until he reaches the end of a long room and pulls open a door somewhere at its farthest edge and shuts himself inside. It's small and dark and he leans against the wall on the furthest side, out of breath; slides down and pulls his knees to his chest.

He wraps his arms around his legs and shoves his face into his knees, squeezes his eyes shut and feels cold. It doesn't matter if it's just in his head.

\--

There's a gentle knock on the door an indiscernible amount of time later (and he wants to laugh because for once the part of his brain responsible for it was too occupied in a _break down_ to _keep track_ and it took him _losing his mind_ to make it **_stop_** \- ) and when he doesn't reply it opens a moment later and then closes seconds after that. He hears her slip into the room, and it has to be her.

Now that he's not quite on the verge of mental collapse he can tell everything he needs to know without having to even lift his head.

She moves lighter than anyone besides him and Bucky, and lighter than them still because she doesn't weigh over two hundred pounds in muscle. Tony's movements are predictable in that they are erratic, Bucky's are efficient and well thought out, his own are also efficient but very little else. Hers are planned, and he knows she must have at least five different routes already planned out to approach him, and maybe just as many for escape, confrontation, and word selection, from the moment she opened the door to slipping inside and closing it, putting herself in an enclosed space with him.

He knows she and Bucky know each other from before S.H.I.E.L.D., he has probably noticed more than Bucky wants him to just because of how Bucky acts when he tries to hide something. Bucky acts normal, too normal for Steve not to notice, and Steve's well versed in reading it because he remembers Bucky doing the same thing with him when _they_ were trying to hide in plain view while with Hydra and the Red Room. Steve doesn't know how they know each other, Bucky's been purposefully keeping it from him and he doesn't know why, but he and Bucky have been through enough that if Bucky _wants_ to keep something to himself Steve's more than willing to let him. He deserves more than that much. It doesn't make Steve any less curious about her, though.

He hears her slide down against the door to sit on the floor across the small room from him (supply closet, or storage, he didn't look but it's about the size of one) and knows she's letting him hear, trying not to spook him like he's a frightened animal. For all intents and purposes, he supposes he is.

She doesn't say anything, just sits, and that alone starts to answer the questions as to why Bucky likes her so much. She's not frenetic energy like Tony Stark, nor pointed silences and jokes and references like Clint. She's patience and poised action, always waiting for the right moment or letting others hang themselves, walk into their own traps. Her code name suits her perfectly.

"Did Bucky send you," it's low and rough, stilted. He's not sure if English is what he wants right now because it doesn't fit quite right, but Russian doesn't, either.

"JARVIS notified Stark of your condition, and James'," she replies calmly, keeping her voice low but frank, "He destroyed the elevator panel when JARVIS refused to take him to wherever he let you out. I haven't heard him curse so colorfully in so many languages before; French, Japanese, Swahili, Hindi, Russian, English." He can't tell if she's trying to lighten the mood, and he doesn't smile, but part of him appreciates the attempt.

They're quiet for ten minutes after that, Steve just breathing and Natasha waiting.

"I dreamed I was in our old apartment in Brooklyn, in my old body with my new mind. Everything was covered in snow," he says quietly.

"Was it cold?" she asks, a little wry. He lets out a sound nowhere near a laugh, but between that and a pained groan it's closer to the previous.

"Yes," he says, "It's always cold. Even when I'm awake."

He doesn't say anything after that for a few more minutes, thoughts rolling around halfway finished through his head. They're slow and they're fast and trying to put themselves together through mind wipe after mind wipe. He's still healing, he feels like he'll always still be healing.

"There was a drawing of mine I did of Bucky, from _Before_ , he looked like he did then but it didn't feel right, then it looked like he does now and that didn't feel right either. There was a drop of blood on it, the train, and then we were both falling," he stops for a moment, swallows, "I grabbed his hand. I had to fall to do it but I grabbed his hand, then we landed. I could hear all of his bones break even over the sound of mine, but I still didn't let go. And then the men came and pulled us apart, always pull us apart no matter where we are. Even in my dreams." The sound he makes then sounds quiet and pained. "Or maybe they're nightmares," he adds mostly to himself in a near mumble.

Natasha doesn't say anything, still waiting, still patient. He knows from experience it's a blessing and a curse.

"I grew too comfortable in my cage at S.H.I.E.L.D. I was almost content to stay there with just the two of us, regardless of whatever else I came to want. I could see him almost whenever I wanted, and I haven't had much of anything, so just having that back was enough for a while," his eyes are open but it's so dark in the room, he can't see anything with his face pressed into his knees, even with his enhanced vision, "And then Hydra came, because they're _Hydra_ and we're _assets_ so _of course_ _they did_ ," he almost growls, "And they dragged us apart again." He lifts his arms and crosses them over the tops of his knees and buries his face in them instead, digs his fingers into his own skin. "And then when we're near each other...I can feel it, every time. I want to cling to him and I want to tear him _apart_ and I don't know what to _do!_ " he shouts into his arms, taking a deep breath.

She's still silent, waiting. It hurts.

"He's been the only thing I've had since even before the train, but I keep losing him, and now I have to fight against _myself_ to even be in the same _room_ with him for more than a day. I'm so tired. Sometimes I just want it all to _stop_." He can feel the tears spilling down the sides of his cheeks and his voice is rough and scratchy. It _hurts._  He's not used to saying this much, _expressing_ this much, not anymore, and that just drives the knife deeper. He digs his nails into his skin, tries to let the _physical_ pain chase away all of the rest. "Do you ever just want it to stop?" he asks, quieter, almost a whisper.

Natasha's quiet for a few minutes before she speaks, voice lower as well, "Sometimes. Other times I'm glad I decided to keep going." She's quiet again for a moment before she adds, "Sometimes it's hard, when you have nothing to ground you; sometimes it's worse when you do." There's a note in her voice that he can't name, but he can tell she's telling her own truth. He closes his eyes.

They stay that way for another half hour ( _thirty minutes, ten seconds._ _His brain is keeping track again_ ), his tears have finally slowed to a stop and his breathing has gone back to normal. Natasha remains silent; it's comforting, unnerving, and a little sad being with someone like him who isn't _Bucky_.

He shifts after a few more moments and lowers his arms from his knees, bringing his legs down to sit cross legged and a hand up to wipe at his face. He's got a beard growing and he never really noticed, he's never had one before. It feels strange.

Lifting his eyes up he still can't see her, but he can make out enough to see the outline of her form against the door. She's got her knees propped up, not nearly as close to the chest as his were, and her arms are resting in her lap.

" _Thank you_ ," he says quietly in Russian. He sees her nod once before she says anything.

" _Are you sure_?" she asks, just as quietly in the same language. He's been programmed and taught to speak it fluently, but it still sounds more natural coming from her. " _This doesn't solve the problem, and you will hurt him with this_."

" _I'll hurt him - both of us - even more if I don't,"_ he replies, _"I don't want to see him bleed anymore, and I don't want to be the one to cause it_."

He can't see her expression, but he can practically feel her conflicting emotions from where he's sat. The fact that he can even pick up on them at all says volumes. He's grateful that she cares even though he's given her no reason to, is even more grateful that she cares that much about Bucky.

" _I don't **understand** myself, Natasha_ ," he continues after another moment, swallowing once, " _He doesn't either, but I know he's managing better than I am. Of the two of us, **I'm** the most likely to get us hurt. And I'm afraid, of myself, of what's inside me. I don't want to risk anything more happening until I better relearn myself. The pieces do not fit._ " He pulls himself up off of the floor after a few minutes, dried blood cracking against his skin and making his pant leg stiff.

She lets out a small sigh, uncrossing her arms and rising a second after him. " _He will not like this,"_ she says, _"I don't know how he will react. And with Hydra after us we might need you two to fight_."

He lets out a sigh of his own, shifting his weight. " _He does not have to like it_ ," he starts, walking over to the door, " _And working together in combat has never been a problem, it's fighting each other that **is**. How can we ever step foot outside if all we want to do is destroy one another because it's the only way we now know to show we care?_ "

She doesn't say anything as she stands in front of him, blocking the door. With another sigh she reaches up, finger hovering over a button, " _I wish I had more answers for you_ ," she half murmurs, opening the door and blinding them both with the sudden light.

Bucky's waiting outside the room just like Steve (The Soldier) thought he would be, expression slightly pinched and body held tightly. He's growing his own beard. It looks strange on him, too.

Bucky's eyes dart to the dried blood on his body before sharing a look with Natasha as she leaves the room ( _training room, he never noticed, which makes some small part of him...happy, and a larger part...The closest words he can think of are 'self flagellation' for not noticing_ ). Bucky's eyes quickly dart back to his, as openly confused and worried as he's allowing himself to show. Steve shifts his own down to catch the minute twitch of Bucky's fingers before darting back up, locking eyes with him. Bucky must see what he's trying to convey with it ( _fear, determination, decision made_ ) because his eyes shutter and his expression goes more blank than Steve's seen in two weeks. It would worry him, if he didn't also see the understanding in there. Bucky could read him like an open book, even when they couldn't remember, some part of them eventually always came to an understanding, and Bucky's doing that here.

Bucky nods once and Steve returns it before turning and leaving the room. Bucky doesn't follow, and Steve feels each yard away from him stretch like a mile. He wants to turn back, wants to cling onto Bucky like a lifeline, but they can't keep doing this, not if they _want_ , and he knows they both do, a lot of the same things. They'll never get there if they can't put _themselves_ back together.

He's tired of living and dreaming of them getting pulled apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comment by Fangrl is pretty much what Bucky did when he was trying to get into the elevator:
> 
> so um i was bored so i went ahead and threw together an insult made up of french, japanese, swahili, hindi, russian, and english that i imagine bucky must've said. (explicitly in that order)
> 
> (CYRILLIC) fouta jigoku you kipande cha shit Āpa usē karanē kē li'ē mujhē lēnē kē li'ē yā maiṁ bhagavāna kī kasama ya chertovski budet sorvat' tebya drug ot druga do you understand?!
> 
> (ORIGINAL FORM) Fouta 地獄 you kipande cha shit, आप उसे करने के लिए मुझे लेने के लिए या मैं भगवान की कसम я чертовски будет сорвать тебя друг от друга do you understand?!
> 
> (TRANSLATION) fucking hell you piece of shit, you tell me where he is or i swear to god i will fucking rip you apart do you understand?!
> 
>  **Edit;** WerantoAvalon suggested this instead for the Russian portion;
> 
> Sorry, but the Russian text instead of "I will fucking rip you apart" says "I fucking it will be to rip you (singular you) from each other" (also чертовски is not a swear word in Russian, it's on the same level as "fricking", I guess, but let's roll with it). I suggest "я разломаю тебя к чертям" or something similar since he is talking to Jarvis and not an actual human being.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you both. <3 I appreciate it, really.


	22. Ghost in the Machine

The first thing Steve does is shave his beard.

Well, no, the first thing he does is look in a mirror for a solid ten minutes before punching it and getting glass everywhere, _then_ he shaves his beard. Tony almost doesn't let him near a blade, but Natasha reasons with him on Steve's behalf and he's granted a pair of scissors and two plastic razors (under the instruction that he throw them away immediately with someone watching during the whole process and when he was finished). He'd prefer a straight edge razor, but he could tell Tony wasn't going to let that happen.

The first thing Bucky does is move into the floor below the one they were sharing, giving it up to Steve, because he won't make Steve go anywhere and he can't stand being in the one above him ( _he'll never be above Steve, never, doesn't want it any other way_ ). It feels emptier without Steve in it, like he's alone, and his mind keeps trying to go back to the days Steve was in cryofreeze and he was operating on his own, but he tries to shove those memories aside.

The second thing Bucky does is shave his own beard, but decides to keep his hair long.

The second thing Steve does is shower, change his bandages, put on pants _and_ a shirt, and try to cope with the silence.

He doesn't handle it very well.

Even when Bucky was around and they spoke very little, it was quiet, but it was never true _silence_. Steve listened to him breathe, move, the whir of his arm and the shush of his clothes. He could smell him, too, and it was all calming. Now, all he hears is the faint sound of his own breath, his own heartbeat in his ears when he focuses, and smells the newness of the furniture and appliances.

He ends up tearing the couch apart for a distraction, for noise, for _sound_ , pulling cushions off and apart with his bare hands, bending metal and throwing bolts. The table Bucky landed on and broke when Steve punched him after his nightmare has been cleared out, so there's space enough for him to move around pull the thing apart.

JARVIS ends up playing a station with rock music at his bitten out, distracted replies to inquiries for possible distractions. Tony tells him he "lost his shit and doesn't appreciate having to replace all this damn furniture whether he can or not." Steve only feels a sliver of guilt, but the fact that he feels that at all both thrills him and makes him uncomfortable ( _weapons don't feel guilt- "You are a weapon. Weapons feel nothing." But humans **do**_ \- ).

Bucky ends up going through something similar, from what JARVIS has told him, except he demolished his fridge and freezer instead and seems to be alternating between listening to old Opera and Metal, instead of a shuffle of five decades of rock. Steve's particularly fond of " _Oh, Pretty Woman_ ," it reminds him of Peggy, which is also why he doesn't listen to it very much.

JARVIS tells him Bucky's taken a liking to a group called Slipknot. He tries listening to them once to feel a little more connected to Bucky because he's limited their exposure to one another, but the lyrics just reminded him of everything he is, everything _they_ are, and after a while gave him a headache so he decided to switch it back to old rock after a few songs. But, sometimes he listens to it at night when he can't sleep; sometimes he listens to it after his nightmares and wonders if Bucky does the same thing.

(He does).

JARVIS has told him that Bucky likes the fifties rock the best out of the genre, but that it reminds him of the forties so he can't listen to it all the time ( _there are reminders everywhere_ ).

They keep their contact to a minimum. It's been a week since they came to the understanding. Sometimes they see each other in the training room - both going through an assortment of punching bags - and sometimes they see each other in passing, but they've worked out a schedule so that they're less likely to run into one another, at Steve's insistence. Sometimes they pass messages through JARVIS, but mostly Steve tries to keep their contact to in passing. The urge to claw and tear is still there, and the longer he goes without seeing Bucky the worse and better it gets. He can push it down enough when he can't see him, can almost feel the tiniest bit normal, but when they do see each other it rises up so swiftly and vehemently that he can barely control it. Bucky goes tense around him for the same reasons, he knows. They spend a lot of their energy on the training floor of the Tower at different intervals.

Hydra hasn't tried infiltrating the Tower yet, Tony was right about its defenses and security, even he and Bucky are impressed, but none of them are of the belief that they won't try something eventually. No one's come or gone save Natasha and Clint when Fury calls them.

Tony had him and Bucky order clothes of their own (mostly) choosing online and frequently does something called 'skype' with a woman named 'Pepper', who he won't introduce to Steve or Bucky for her own safety. Steve doesn't take it personally; it _is_ for her own safety. She's obviously important to Tony, he can read it in the way Stark moves, the way his eyes soften and the cadence in his voice changes when he talks about her. Steve's taken enough from him, he doesn't want to be responsible for her death, too ( _Bucky feels the same_ ).

At the end of the week, Steve decides to cut his hair; Bucky puts his in a ponytail.

Steve tries cooking a few times because he gets tired of processed foods, but everything comes out "amazing" (Tony's words, not his) just like his programming says it should, so he throws it all away and hasn't tried since. 

Bucky sends him a message through JARVIS telling him he managed to burn spaghetti (JARVIS tells him that he, " _Sounds particularly proud at this endeavor_ "). It makes Steve want to smile, but he can't get his lips to move.

They're making progress in their own ways, but they can't live like this forever.

\--

Tony stops dead center in the middle of the communal living room a week after Rogers and Barnes' "agreement" when he catches sight of Rogers himself.

His hair's short, like the reels his dad showed him. Well, no, it's shorter, and it's in soft spikes, but holy shit he can actually get a clear look at the guy's face for the first time since they _met_ ( _worst first meeting ever, but not the most awkward_ ).

He looks mostly the same as he does in the forties reels, and him and Barnes have been eating steadily enough (they might not entirely trust anyone but they seem to be working on it; at least they're convinced Tony, Natasha, and Clint aren't trying to poison them at the moment so they eat the food Tony gets stocked in their kitchens. At the same time. Through a live video feed. He only knows this because JARVIS notified him and he's not telling a soul) to get back to their 'normal' weight. They've also been going to the gym more often than he thinks is healthy ( _too much of a good thing and all that. It makes Tony exhausted just watching the surveillance footage_ ) so they're practically back to tip-top shape. 

The only main difference is the weariness. Rogers looks his ninety-some-odd-years when you look him in the eye, maybe even older, trapped in the body of a young man that's seen way too much. He's almost half Tony's age alone, and that thought sends Tony reeling whenever he remembers it, Barnes technically is too. Rogers looks sharper than he did in the old films, lines more refined through combat and war and pain. The way he carries himself has gradually been shifting to become something like a cross between his old self and the way Natasha moves, and it's jarring to see when he's seen how Rogers used to be ( _carefree, unaccustomed to a huge new body_ ), or at least glimpses of it.

Barnes has kept the hair, unlike Rogers, but his eyes tell a similar story. And while he's not as tall as Steve, he's almost as broad and looks even more deadly. He wears his pain and anger like it's part of him and uses it as armor; Steve wears it like it's a part of him he struggles between wanting to shove away and embrace at the same time, and like he's stuck with it.

Tony's also noticed that while Steve is slowly getting back into wearing colors (though still a little dark and muted), Barnes keeps his wardrobe on the dark side; blacks, grays, the occasional dark green when he's feeling less murder-stealth. They also both started shaving regularly, which Tony (much as he doesn't trust either of them with anything that can be used as a weapon, let alone disposable _razors_ ) will be forever grateful for because Captain America - even if he's not quite Captain America right now - and, hell, Bucky Barnes the Winter Soldier with a beard is _weird_ for him. Too weird. He can't do it. Like a chia-pet. Just no.

Right now, Steve's sitting at the table, eating cereal and going through the day's newspaper like he does this every morning, and maybe he did once, before everything ( _and isn't that weird to think about_ ). Barnes is nowhere to be seen, as usual, keeping to their pact like it's an order. 

Tony can see the point of it, he can, but at the same time it's more of a stopper measure than a full on fix. They can't avoid each other for forever (well, no, they could, but he gets the feeling they don't want to and he thinks it'd be stupid to make themselves do it). He can't quite tell what Natasha thinks about it, but he gets the sense that it's somewhere along the lines of his own thoughts (rare as that is, but they're both smart people and this is a problem they're both trying to tackle in their own ways). Clint's decided he's "not touching that one with a ten foot pole so help him" unless it's absolutely necessary, but he'll watch _Avatar_ with Barnes and Rogers in intervals and play catch up with whoever ends up getting a little behind in their turn for a marathon (Barnes and Rogers both think Toph is a badass and might even need her own show).

Tony can understand that reasoning, too.

"Have you read the comics yet?" Tony asks as he grabs a packet of berries out of the communal fridge, ripping the top open and tossing a few in his mouth while he plops down in the chair to Steve's right (and makes sure to make noise because fuck they're still just previously brainwashed super soldier assassins and the _last_ time he snuck up on _Barnes_ by accident he almost got a _metal fist_ _through his solar plexus_ ).

Steve doesn't glance up, but he does remove a section of the newspaper and slide it carefully in Tony's direction. It's the comics page.

That's another thing, Steve is very slowly starting to talk more (and in English, so he doesn't have to have JARVIS send translations to his phone quite nearly as much anymore), but he still doesn't _talk much_. Barnes has graduated to more than the occasional full sentence (Clint and Natasha even get full paragraphs out of him sometimes when he's ranting about the _Fire Nation_ ). Rogers, that Tony has heard, at most says a few sentences, as of two days ago. It was Thursday, noon, he told Tony he ran out of shampoo after "efficiently using every drop he could reach" (and then proceeded to tell him that he opened the top and tried scraping shampoo off of the edges with a long, narrow spoon) on what was that ridiculously long hair of his. Tony bought him Iron Man shampoo, then proceeded to fill all of the bathroom showers with it in glee. Steve had looked as unimpressed at the act as he was currently capable of showing, and Tony heard Barnes let out a Russian curse in the direction of his lab while Tony was tinkering with a prototype of something new. Those reactions alone made it worth it because Steve's expression range expanded, if only a little, and Barnes expressing himself was a big leap in progress.

Barnes curses more now in general, which delights Clint to no end. Sometimes they have insult-offs when Clint's around and even Tony's surprised at the combos Barnes can come up with for being a ninety-three year old Soviet assassin. Clint's eyebrows had climbed so high Tony was afraid they would disappear to join his hair, but he'd laughed almost as hard at that little competition as he did at the "Fire Nation" joke he practically tricked Barnes into saying. Barnes, newly knowledgeable in _Avatar_ , now knows what it means and says it at the most random times possible just to turn Clint into a writhing mess on the floor, tears streaming down his red face and hands clutched to his chest. Natasha was the most amused he's ever seen her at the sight, even going so far as to smile; Barnes had just smirked like the smug bastard Tony's starting to suspect he might've been off and on before World War II (and that's even more progress there so he'll take it).

Sometimes he catches Barnes and Steve talking to Natasha in Russian at odd hours (and never together) when he's wandering the Tower or getting food when he remembers to eat. They talk low and quiet on the huge, wrap around couch in the communal living room and he's careful not to translate it (even though he wants to, badly). Their interactions are...interesting. From the brief moments he's seen, Barnes is more relaxed and open around her than anyone, save Rogers. Rogers is...not relaxed, exactly, but it's the closest approximation he's gotten to it around anyone who isn't Barnes, which is saying a lot. She's the one who manages to get a little more than a sentence out of Rogers whenever Tony does catch them talking. It could be more, but Tony tries to make himself scarce (enhanced hearing makes it _so_ difficult to spy on people who have it).

"Thanks," Tony says, leaning over slightly to read through the comics, dumping a few more berries into his palm.

A couple minutes later, he sees Rogers tense in his peripheral right before he reaches the bottom of the page. Swallowing the berries in his mouth, he takes his time reading the last row, careful not to draw attention to the fact that he's noticed, even if Rogers will undoubtedly notice that _he has_ noticed. Tony knows who's most likely just frozen in his steps behind himself and locked eyes with the newly trimmed Steve Rogers (without making a sound, _fuck,_  he's glad they seem to be on the same side). He doesn't hear Barnes leave (of course he doesn't, could walk on eggshells and still not make a sound, both of them), but he sees Steve shift a little in his chair, stilling for a moment before he moves it back to get up without a sound.

The chair's pushed back in and the newspaper and empty cereal bowl go with Rogers to the kitchen. Tony keeps his eyes on the paper for a full minute before looking up.

The room is empty and Rogers is gone.

He lets out a sigh and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Tense? Yes. Does he wish they would cut it out and fuck already? Yes. Will that solve the whole problem? _No_ , probably not, but it'll definitely be a good place to start. Maybe then the tension levels would go down a few volumes, or ten.

He gets up and leaves his own chair where it is, grabs the comics page he's finished reading and his empty berry package and recycles them both ( _he can be responsible when he wants to, Pepper_ ). 

He heads down to shut himself in his lab for a few more days (he gets the feeling those two are going to explode soon, and he'd rather not be around for that, so hopefully it'll happen while he's buried in mechanics and schematics). Besides, he also gets the feeling that Hydra's going to make their move soon, and from what Fury's been relaying through Natasha and Clint, it's been dead silent from them since the Triskelion attack (because _that's_ not suspicious at all).

So the eerie quiet, not even a peep, not even a report of a hacking attempt? Yeah, Tony doesn't trust it.

\--

He waits until the door's closed behind him, locked, and a few moments after without moving an inch, then he's pounding his flesh fist once, hard against the wall to his right. The impact sends a jolt up his arm that reaches the metal of his left, but it doesn't ground him as well as it did a few days ago. He leans on his fist against the wall, tries to breathe through the demand, the _emotions_ , tries to calm down, tries to do _something_ , but it's bubbling up like magma and thunder under his skin and deeper and _deeper_ -

And it's getting harder to settle it down.

Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself off of the wall, stalks forward and bangs open the door to the bedroom. He's still sweaty from the training ( _it was his turn, Steve arranged it so he would go first_ ) and he needs a shower.

Steve cut his hair. He looked...familiar. The same. And at the same time completely different. It wasn't cut in the gentle sweeps of the forties ( _soft, spiked, wild. No longer gentle, swept, and polite_ ), but it wasn't the long, face-blocking curtain of just _yesterday_. It was like looking into the past but seeing the present all at the same time and it makes his chest squeeze and his blood quicken, sending him conflicting signals. He tries to ignore the low heat below his stomach, cock pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his pants.

He doesn't know what Steve thinks about them, _if_ he thinks _anything_ about them, hasn't talked to him about it (probably won't, ever, unless it happens to come up. He's not _shy_ , just...not willing to confront it on his own), doesn't know what Steve wants or how he _feels_.

He doesn't know when it happened. Maybe the day Steve ran out of the apartment they had to share after socking him in the face (he didn't take it personally, they've done worse to each other and it was a nightmare), but the tension between them's started shifting for _him_. It's only been a week, but the memories have more or less settled, the old feelings have soaked down into him and coiled around what he feels in the _now_. Now it's just a matter of trying to get everything to... _mesh_.

Natasha's been helping him as best she can, he knows she's been trying to do the same for Steve. She understands more than Tony probably knows, and Clint; she's told him. She's talked to Steve some, hasn't given him her life's story or anything, but she told him enough to get _Steve_ to understand that _she_ understood and could help him.

He's grateful, so grateful, because she _does_ help. She gets it in ways no one but those who have been through the same, or similar, could. She also tests him in a multitude of languages, gives him commands to see if he'll snap to attention and obey the first person barking out an order. He's gotten better, his body still tenses and his mind still seeks a directive, but it's gotten less "Pavlov's dogs" and more just old habit.

They're moving surprisingly fast considering the damage. The physical side of it is understandable, their serum enhanced bodies have a higher healing rate, and the longer they're out of the chair the more of the damage their bodies have time to heal. Steve's is still taking longer because of how much harder he had it, but from the glimpses Bucky's caught of him since their agreement, he knows it's getting better.

The psychological side of it is a little trickier. Bucky looks things up online (that had been amusing. Tony - who for some reason assumed he'd only know how to use hand held weapons and not the internet - pulled the most priceless expression Bucky had ever seen on him when he'd pulled up Tony's bank statement without so much as the help of _Google_ ). He reads what he can on 'PTSD' and mental conditions. Natasha helps him where she can, she's not trained in it but she's smart and a fast learner and she _wants_ to help him (she'd said it was red in her ledger. He'd seen through it but hadn't said a word. They shared Vodka that night).

Steve, again, is trickier. Bucky's more...not accepting, but he's trying to deal with the shit he's been dealt. Steve was never meant to bend the way Bucky has. He wasn't meant to be a killer, wasn't meant to have to wade through all of the black and gray. He was right or he was wrong, he saw the just and the unjust and knew which way he had to go. He did things he hated having to do, but did them because he didn't see another way. Hydra fucked him up in the best ( _most horribly efficient_ ) way they could have. They made Captain America, _Steve Rogers_ , wade through the dark, the place where only Bucky was supposed to go to keep him clean, and he'll make them _all_ _pay_ for that.

He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh as he presses the heel of his left hand against his cock pressing against his zipper, leaning his head back and taking a deep breath before he heads for the shower.

So no, he doesn't know what Steve thinks about what's going on between them, but he's not going to bring it up unless it becomes a problem. He won't drag Steve even further into the dark with him. It's his job to make sure Steve never has to be there in the first place.

\--

Steve's already in shorts and a t-shirt, so he heads straight to the training floor.

After wrapping his hands, the first thing he does is pound a punching bag; once, twice, and then it's flying across the room and sand is spilling everywhere.

He hasn't even started yet.

Tony told him and Bucky both to try not "bulldozing through them." Tony'd mass ordered more but didn't like the thought of it (didn't want Hydra sneaking something, or someone, in the building because they couldn't control themselves). Tony had them scan the lot three times over and check it twice manually before he brought them inside.

He can't _focus_. All he can see is Bucky stopping in the middle of the floor, eyes widening as he stared at him for a few seconds before turning right back around and practically, for them, running out of the room. He knows it's not just because he finally worked up the nerve to cut his hair, to cut off the weight of seventy years in some other way than shaving the beard he'd been growing. He wanted to feel a little more like his old self somehow, and it finally just felt _right_ and he-

He misses him.

He misses Bucky.

But the reason they don't stay in the same room is the exact same reason there's a punching bag lying broken thirty feet away from him after only three hits. He wants to tear into him and he _can't_ let himself do that, can't **_keep_** doing that.

He goes over to the large storage closet and pulls out another bag, hooks it up and gets into position. He can hear his own blood pumping in his ears, feel the barely contained violence he's trying to keep under control, driven by- _something_ he can't put a name to. His muscles are coiled tight and his teeth are gritted, jaw clenching, and then he's kicking the punching bag in a side kick.

It flies fifty feet. He wants to yell.

_Fuck._

\--

Steve heads back to his room, sweaty after trying to exhaust himself (five punching bags, forty laps around the room, two hundred push ups, four hundred sit ups, _jump rope medicine ball stretching_ \- ), showers, and changes into a navy long sleeved shirt and jeans.

He looks in the mirror when he's done, manages not to look as tired as he internally feels and runs his hands through his hair. It feels foreign, almost, like it's the same and completely different; new. If he looks long enough he can almost see the longer hair superimposed over the new, the brushed-to-the-side sweep of a past life under that.

If he focuses long enough, he thinks he can see the old him in an old mirror with a crack running diagonal in the corner in an old apartment building in Brooklyn, hear Bucky complaining about the heat while he smokes a cigarette in one of their only two windows. It makes his chest hurt and his programming stutter and he lowers his head slightly and closes his eyes, shakes his head a little to try and move the memories away. After taking a deep breath, he opens them again and looks back up into the mirror.

"You're ninety-five and not a day over twenty-six," he says quietly to his reflection, then switches to Russian, " _Will you ever be human again?_ "

His reflection doesn't answer him, so after a few minutes of staring at himself he shuts the light off and leaves.

He stumbles across music and Bucky and Natasha ( _who he's heard Bucky call 'Natalia'_ ) dancing in the communal room.

He ends up back in his room and it's almost a blur, back against the door and palms pressed tightly to it, head bowed.

He grits his teeth for a moment before sucking in air and holding it, letting it out in a long, slow breath.

" _Will I ever not be tired? Will I ever be able to touch him without restraint?_ " he asks the floor quietly in Russian, closing his eyes for a moment before he pushes himself off of the door, heading into the main bedroom.

He curls up into a tight ball in the middle of the bed in his clothes, hands up against his chest and knees up against them, eyes closed, forcing his breaths to slow.

He dreams of being human.

\--

A loud alarm blaring from the whole apartment wakes him an hour later and his eyes snap open, JARVIS relaying a message before his voice cuts out.

In the sudden silence, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. For a moment, he feels too human, locked in a body that isn't his. He feels like a ghost in a machine.

" _CODE 'RUSHMAN': SECURITY BREACH_ -"


	23. "He's Captain America!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a time stamp of sorts that happens during the week Steve and Bucky's agreeing not to be around each other is taking place. It's the day Steve cuts his hair. It wouldn't leave me alone so I wrote it.
> 
> Also! The italics Captain America speech stuff is from the deleted scene "Steve Rogers - A Man Out Of Time" when he's watching the old reel on a laptop thing. I had to kind of transcribe it from ear so it might be a little inaccurate.
> 
> Thank you to aprofessorstale who's betaing for me and is awesome and amazing and if you're not reading The Stranger (that she's writing) you should go do that like now.
> 
> Shit's going to hit the fan next chapter and there might be sex soon? Brace yourselves.

It's Thursday ( _3:55 pm, Eastern Time, Avengers Tower, Floor Thirty-four_ ) and the windows are black. He hasn't seen Bucky in two days ( _two days, thirteen hours, fifty-five minutes, thirty-nine seconds_ \- ). He demolished the couch yesterday, Tony had looked surprised, then impressed, then unimpressed almost immediately after ( _he's not good at hiding his emotions_ ). Stark had the couch cleared out and now the space is empty, but he's sitting in the empty space anyway, with a laptop on the floor in front of him ( _the table Bucky broke when he landed on it after Steve punched him is gone too_ ). There's no trace of Bucky left on the entire floor. He's in the floor below him and Steve can't touch him or smell him or look him in the eyes and convey everything he can't vocalize in a _single look_ -

He has to talk to people now, with words. He talks to Natasha sometimes, late at night ( _11:00 pm, Eastern Time_ ) and in the early mornings ( _2:00 am, Eastern Time_ ), more than he does anyone else. She's the only one he's said more than a few words to in seventy years. She finally told him something from her past. Involving Bucky ( _"He trained me, early on. I was twenty-three when I left. I asked him to come with me, he told me he couldn't, that something was pulling him back and he didn't know what it was, but that he couldn't leave it behind. We kissed; I never saw him again until you two tried to kill us."_ ) It wasn't that Bucky ( _the Winter Soldier_ ) trained her that made him...willing enough to talk to her, it was the pull, the kiss. He and Bucky have always been drawn to one another, then pulled to one another, and if Bucky could bare himself enough to kiss Natasha, a woman who hides behind more masks than Steve's capable of knowing, then she knew enough; she understood.

It was smart of her; she chose her words wisely ( _and this is why he does not trust her_ ).

Talking with her, he's grown to like Natasha, maybe more than he once could have and that terrifies him, but it thrills him, too. He's capable of liking someone now, which could now include Bucky ( _liking had nothing to do with them, they were bound to each other in ways he can't explain_ ), he's capable of talking to someone now.

It makes him feel a little more human, and that scares him.

Tony had given him a laptop (if you could call it a laptop; _thick, black base, glass touch screen propped up at an angle_ ) at Natasha's request ( _a request he made through her_ ). It has no internet, no files, nothing he could use to hack, alter, destroy in a matter of minutes, seconds. He wanted to see who he was, wanted to see if he could still recognize himself or if he'd see himself in the reels and think of himself as a stranger.

He slides his finger across the touchpad, double clicks on the only file available in the top left hand of the screen. It starts playing. It's in black and white.

_"War! With the Forces of Darkness pressing in from the East! From the West, America heeds the call to fight for freedom! And at the front of the fight, battling shoulder-to-shoulder with our battling boys is Captain America!"_

He's in black and white, in his Captain America uniform; he's running.

_"A product of old fashioned values and exciting new science! Captain America is the name every Nazi fears!"_

He's smiling. His hair's shorter then than it is now, styled and swept aside.

_"And Adolf's new secret are weapons no match for our man! When tough times turn tougher, when hope's on the ropes,"_

_"I had'im on the ropes."_ Blood in his mouth, ninety-five pounds, breathing hard, Bucky.

 _"I had'im on the ropes."_ Hydra agent, shot in the head, he helped, cannon blast, ( _"Get behind me!" He grabs Bucky. Both arms are flesh and blood_ ), Bucky grabbed the shield, _Bucky_ -

_"here's the man to knock the axis on their baxis! He's out there fighting for the land that we love and he won't stop-"_

**_Crash._ **

His vision slowly clears ( _Bucky, Commandos, Hydra base, fire, rifle, recoil in his shoulder, Howard and Maria Stark, Winter Soldier whispering in his ear - "Adjust scope two degrees left" like a caress - falling, falling **falling**_ \- ); his fist is through where the screen was, glass littering the black base of the computer, the furry, white rug on top of the wood paneled floor. He's breathing fast. He tries to slow it down, takes a deep breath, then takes another. His psychologist told him to try counting backwards from ten ( _"Or in your case, maybe a hundred." He might be capable of liking her now. He'll probably never see her again._ )

He pulls his fist back, no blood on his knuckles ( _or the inside of his mouth again at ninety-five pounds, not since **Bucky punched him**_ \- ) He takes another deep breath ( _doesn't close his eyes, he'll only see fire and blood and blue light_ ).

" _Sir_."

He jumps, muscles tensing, forces them to relax.

"JARVIS," he responds quietly, keeps whatever emotions might have surfaced out of his voice. It's a little harder to do now then it was a week ago. "I-...I'm sorry," he finishes in a near whisper.

" _It's perfectly alright, Sir. Mr. Stark anticipated this outcome and has told me to tell you, in the case of this happening, to 'leave everything where it is and he'll get the glass out of the rug later_.'"

Steve presses his lips together firmly for a moment. Tony still doesn't trust him with sharp objects. He's smart not to.

" _I also have another message for you_."

Steve inclines his head slightly, looking up at the ceiling where the voice is mostly coming from.

" _It's from Mr. Barnes. He told me to tell you that he 'finally shaved today, but he's keeping the hair_.'"

He's quiet for a moment, then drops his head slightly, lips pulling up fractionally at the sides.

"JARVIS."

" _Sir_."

"Could you tell him...Tell him I 'beat him to it.'"

" _As you wish, Sir_."

"And JARVIS."

" _Sir?_ "

"Could you ask Natasha to get me a pair of scissors."

" _As you wish, Sir_."

He uncoils himself from off of the floor, the grace feels a little strange with his memories back, but also like he's had it for longer than he's really been alive ( _he's twenty-six and he's ninety-five and he feels both ages keenly_ ). He supposes he has.

Natasha shows up ten minutes later with the closest thing he's seen to a smile aimed in his direction and a pair of children's safety scissors in her hand. He can't tell if she's smiling for him or at him.

He takes the scissors carefully when she offers them.

It comes off slowly. Longer than he decides he wants it at first. It gradually goes from his shoulders to his ears, then higher. He cuts it the length it was in the video and lets it sweep over his forehead, smooth and clean and...not him.

The man in the video felt like an echo, something he started out as, but he isn't where he started anymore, and he's not that man. Probably won't ever be again.

He stares at himself in the mirror, scissors at his side in his right hand and back straight, plain black t-shirt across his chest.

The hair looks wrong with his battle worn and tired eyes, sharper angles and deadly grace. He glances at the t-shirt. The only time he ever wore black was to his mother's funeral.

It all feels _wrong_.

He keeps cutting it.

When he's done, he sets the scissors silently on the corner of the sink. Natasha's waiting in the apartment's connected master bedroom, but he can't see her, she's staying carefully out of his line of sight. He appreciates it.

He looks back at the mirror, lifts a hand and runs his fingers through his hair. It's short, soft, spikes wild and flying every which way. He brushes off the remnants from the cutting that fell to his shoulders into the sink, turns the faucet on to cold and washes them down the drain. His eyes follow the swirl of water for a moment before he shuts it off and looks back up into the mirror. This could be him, now, he thinks.

Steve grabs the scissors and turns off the light, walking back into the master bedroom as silent as Natasha walks everywhere.

She's perched on the edge of the bed in black clothes and brown leather, leaning back on her hands and staring right at him. Their eyes lock and she quirks a brow, but a small smile is dancing on her lips again; it looks softer, makes her look a little nicer. He likes her like this.

His own lips twitch up a little in his approximation of a smile. Hers gets wider in response.

"I like it," she says, getting up off the bed. She doesn't move first, waits for him to offer her the scissors; she's smart. He hands them over carefully, making sure his movements are obvious.

"I think I do, too."

Her smile stretches a little wider, a little more real, or maybe she just wants him to think it's real; he has no point of reference for her ( _wonders if Bucky might know_ ), but he gets the sense that she might like him, too.

"I don't...want to wear black anymore," he says after a moment, a little louder than he usually talks. Her eyebrows rise a little before she smooths them out, turning for the door but keeping him in her line of sight the whole time.

"I'll talk to Stark," she says, leading the way out of the bedroom; he follows, "I'm sure he's just dying to get you to play dress up."

Steve can hear the smirk in her voice; it reminds him a little of Bucky. She doesn't really talk about Bucky much around him. He's not sure if she's trying to avoid pushing his buttons because he's almost always on edge or if she's keeping those words to herself for her own reasons. Sometimes he appreciates it, most of the time all he wants to do is talk about Bucky because he can't see him. It's his own doing, he knows, but it doesn't stop Steve from missing him.

"Hydra never got me to wear a dress," it's an attempt at a tease, he's not sure if he's doing it quite right but he can see her blink in what might be surprise before she schools it out into neutral amusement, "I wonder if they would have, given enough time."

"Probably," she replies an exact appropriate amount of time later, which means she's being cautious, is probably about to tell him something she doesn't know how he'll handle, "James looked rather dashing in a red number they had him in at some point in the 80's."

She turns around.

He lets out a huff of air, the closest thing he can get to a laugh.

"I'm sure he did," he replies neutrally. It's not as shocking as everyone might think he thinks it is, he's seen so many things since 1943.

Her lips twitch upward, pleased enough with whatever she sees in his eyes, and then she's turning back around and heading for the door.

"I'll let Stark know," she leaves him with, door closing soundlessly behind her.

He heads over to the large, flat screen tv, slightly dodging the mess of glass and picking up the remote. He sits back on the floor where the couch used to be, buries his fingers in the furry, white rug while turning on the tv.

"JARVIS," he says a few minutes later, stopping on a channel playing a baseball game; he keeps the volume low.

" _Yes, Sir?_ "

"Steve."

" _Sir?_ "

"Please call me Steve."

" _As you wish, Steve_."

He manages to smile a little further. He's not exactly Steven Grant Rogers, small kid fighting in back alleys in Brooklyn and trying to do what's right, lying if he has to accomplish what he wants when honesty doesn't work and running around as Captain America in a war that ended years ago.

He's not exactly the Soldier, killing everyone he's ordered to without reason or thought, touching boots to another's and wishing he could wish, wishing he could want.

He's a mess of both, one trying to reconcile the other, starting to feel like maybe he can try to do the right thing again even if he's not exactly sure what that is anymore, and though there's a monster itching under his skin to tear its way out, _can_ have wishes and wants, too. So maybe, just maybe, he's Steve.


	24. You've always been (Howl)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY. GUYS. READ THIS. IMPORTANT. WARNING. This chapter is fairly graphic in some parts. If you don't like blood or extreme violence or sex _beware_. Also there's a thing in the notes at the bottom that's a bonus picture because aprofessorstale is awesome and the latter half of this chapter came about purely because of her and it is magic. Also tigers. So many tigers. 
> 
> Also I have a more clear idea of where I want this to go and there will be a sequel/part 2 to it for the latter half of what I want to do. Just letting you all know.
> 
> P.S. You should go read The Stranger. _Clint's face_. I'm not even kidding.
> 
> Also, this is the song you should probably listen to right after Bucky's hand is on Steve's neck; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucFHDxhCVwE  
> I listened to it on repeat while I was writing the whole scene, it's oddly fitting and charging.

Steve's frozen for a moment, eyes staring wide and cataloging all of the rumples in the white bedding under his hands and a little beyond them, then his eyes shift to hands. 

There are scars. The Winter Soldier (Bucky) broke the thumb of his right hand to get him to drop a knife in training, broke his left wrist when he pulled his arm too sharply up against his back (it was the second time they trained, Bucky (Winter Soldier) missed him without knowing what he was feeling; the Soldier (Steve) broke the Winter Soldier's (Bucky's) leg because he kicked him too hard in response. He missed Bucky too). There are scars on his knuckles from hitting the metal arm over and over and _over_ because it felt wrong against his skin. 

The room is still silent. JARVIS is still silent. Hydra is coming, is _here_.

His mind is eerily quiet, programming cataloging everything to avoid thinking and he can't _move_.

He forces himself to blink once, squeezing his eyes shut _hard_ , white dancing in his vision over the white sheets when he opens them again. He takes in a deep breath, forces himself up into a sitting position.

Hydra is here.

He looks at his shield leaning against the side of the ( _his_ \- ) bed.

Hydra is here.

The metal shines in the dim light, red star bright against silver. His lips twitch up a little, baring his teeth at it slightly in a small, silent _snarl_. It's his and he _hates_ it.

Hydra is-

Hates what they did to _him_ , what they did to _Bucky_ , what they made them do to _other people_ , to _each other_ -

_Hydra-_

His programming falters, jitters a little before the emotions layer over it violently.

He's so _**angry**_.

It sweeps through him like _fire_ , sudden and rapid and burning everything in its way.

He grabs his shield up off the floor and flings himself off the bed, running silently through the room and down the hall to the left to the front door. He lets his training kick in, guide the anger coursing through his veins and slips out the door silently, wanting to claw the red star off of his shield, missing the _blue_.

For the first time since he was captured he _feels_ what he is, and what he is is _**dangerous**_.

\--

Bucky tenses in his seat on the couch as the alarm blares for a few seconds ( _three point two_ ) before JARVIS cuts off. He shares a sharp glance with Natasha. "'Code Rushman'?" he asks.

"It's a long story," she replies, getting up from the couch, "From when I infiltrated Stark Industries to keep an eye on Stark. It means the Tower's been infiltrated."

He rises up from the couch and turns towards her.

"Gun or knife.” Not a question.

Her eyebrows crease slightly before she straightens them out, pulling out one of the guns he knows is always hidden away in her jacket and handing it to him with a clip pulled from the other side of the inside of her jacket.

"We both know you're better with a gun," she replies calmly, not betraying anything. Whether she's worried he'll shoot her or not he can't say, but he does know she's not the threat, for now.

"True," he says, taking the gun with his left hand and the extra clip with his right, pocketing it. He pulls the slide of the gun. "Steve was always better with a knife-" he cuts himself off, shakes his head slightly and looks back up at her, "Thanks."

She gives him an assessing look before a noise draws their attention down the hall across from the back of the couch.

"How many do you think there are?" he asks, raising the gun up and aiming it down the hall. He doesn't need to use the sight. He's been around guns long enough he's practically one of them ( _as if he wasn't already_ ). 

"If it's Hydra? Probably a lot," she starts, shifting position and then aiming her own guns down the same hall, "But if what I've read is true, there will only be an elite few. The rest are cannon fodder."

Bucky smirks for a moment before smoothing his face out. The first agent rounds the corner and he _fires_. Headshot.

It _is_ Hydra, and he's got a score to pay back.

For _himself_.

For _Steve_.

They open fire.

\--

Steve heads for the door to the stairwell and leans his ear to it, keeping his shield back and to his side so it doesn't bump into it. He keeps his eyes open as he focuses his attention and _listens_. 

They're going up ( _ten pairs of boots, heavy, armored, armed, formation three_ ), which means they've either locked on the Winter Soldier, one of the others, or don't know which floor holds any of them and are making an educated guess. 

Scenario one is most likely ( _saw_ _Bucky by observation through the glass windows; neighboring building; saw him in the communal room where Steve left him with Natasha_ ), all tracking was removed from the metal arm when they were first captured and enough of the Tower's windows are blacked out to keep the windows alone from being a determining factor for either of their locations ( _Stark's idea; smart_ ).

He pulls his ear back from the door and reaches down, pushes on the long, horizontal handle bar slowly until he's silently pushing it open (it's only his training that keeps him this patient, otherwise he'd be ripping the door off its hinges, being noticed be _damned_ ), repeats the process to close it once he's in the stairwell and looks up. 

He sees a smudge of black disappear past the stairwell ten stories up. 

He backs up a few feet before taking a running start at the stairs, taking the first set five at a time before leaping each set of stairs as a whole, using his speed and strength to get him to the thirty-eighth floor in seconds ( _eighteen point two_ ). 

He's not even breaking a sweat. 

Part of him feels good moving, having a directive- _goal_ in mind, the rest of him is barely contained _anger_. 

He repeats the process with the door ten stories up from where he started, opening it quietly and closing it just the same before he walks silent on bare feet to the end of the short hall, pressing his back to the corner and looking around it.

Ten agents, insignia confirms Hydra, armed to the teeth and armored in black stealth gear. It looks like they tried preparing for who they came to _retrieve_ ( _more armor than usual, tighter formation, no tranquilizers_ ). 

His training tells him to take a steadying breath so he pulls back and presses his back against the wall and does ( _they’re training and the air is full of tension before a fight, the gentlest squeeze on a trigger- the only time he was gentle at all_ \- ), closes his eyes as he takes it in then lets it out just as silently. He squeezes the straps a little tighter on the shield before he forces his body to relax, rolls the anger up tight into his chest and lets it ground his focus. 

He opens his eyes, and then moves around the corner, stalking quietly forward, power coiled in each muscle, each joint, each silent step of his bare feet on shiny, black floor. 

Bucky always reminded him of a tiger, and now that he has his memories back he can see it even clearer, and he's starting to realize that they _honed him into one, too_.

They don't see or hear him coming. 

He twists the first’s neck before lowering him silently to the floor, picking off three more agents at the end of the herd before they notice him. He brings his shield up quickly when they do and _slams_ it into another's neck, driving the agent into the hall's left wall and his shield through bone when they collide, hears the edge _crunch_ through spinal cord before whipping it out and back around to block gunfire. 

The head rolls off and lands with a _thud- **splat**_ on the floor. The man didn't even get the chance to scream.

Steve _charges_ forward, bullets grazing his side, the sides of his legs, the sides of his arms as he swings the shield outward, swipes four guns off their aim and punches another agent in the throat. He hears them _gag_ through their protective face gear before he side kicks another in the abdomen and sends him _flying_ into the left wall. 

Blocking the gunfire of two other agents, he elbows the one he'd punched in the throat in the face, the man hitting the floor with a solid _thud_ before Steve's rushing the two firing. 

One of the other agents is frozen, un-moving, _shocked_.

Steve can make out the sound of gunfire coming from two floors above him, but doesn't let it rush him ( _"Focus is essential in combat. Focus!"_ _harsh Russian, a backhand to his face, cold eyes_ ; it makes him _angrier_ ).

He puts _force_ into it when he shoves the two firing agents into the right wall with his shield, knocking their guns to the sides of it with the motion and reaching out with his left hand to snap the neck of one before pulling the shield back and _flinging_ it at the frozen agent. The Soldier brings his right hand up to disarm the agent against the wall and hold him with there with his forearm, the frozen agent dodging the shield just in time before seeming to remember that he has a gun- _fires_ -

Steve catches and throws his shield again and hears it _crack_ through the agent’s helmet, embedding into the man's skull. 

He watches the body fall before turning back to the agent he's holding against the wall, reaches up with his left hand and rips off the protective gear covering the agent's face, drops it to the floor and listens to the echo.

He's a little younger than Steve, physically, but just a child in comparison. Steve hasn't been a kid in very, very long time _._

The agent is breathing hard, eyes hard, determined, trying to hold onto whatever belief he holds that Hydra is worth _dying_ for.

They stare at each other for a few more seconds ( _two point one_ ) before the Soldier ( _Steve_ \- ) slowly presses his forearm tighter to the agent's neck. He keeps pressing in with the same pace as the blood slowly oozing out of the bodies around him as the agent's eyes slowly get wider, breathing gradually cut off.

Part of him is screaming at himself, _recoiling_ because _Steve doesn't do this_ and _what would Bucky think_ -

But Bucky isn't here ( _two stories up, most likely; he recognizes the timing of the shots being fired_ ) and he hasn't been Steve in over seventy years and he is _**angry**_. 

Seventy years and they treated him like an attack dog, coddled him with sweet voices and faces and lying eyes and beat him until he couldn't breathe right, until the Winter Soldier was trying to curl around him from behind because Bucky always tried to help him through his asthma, to get Steve regulate his breathing with Bucky's own (" _Just like that. Feel that Stevie? Breathe with me, in, out, deep breaths you can do it, pal._ ") Except the Winter Soldier couldn't remember what he was doing or _why_ and it _breaks_ something in him.

The kid ( _agent_ ) stops breathing. 

Steve lets his body drop to the floor, eyes wide and glassy and empty.

He turns away, walks over to the other body and pulls his shield out of the agent's skull with a _squelch_. 

The part of him that recoiled is trying to rationalize this, another part of him is processing efficiency, the rest of him is just _anger_ and _fury_ and _ **pain**_.

The shield's red star isn’t the only part of it covered in red anymore. 

There's red dotting and misted across his jeans and some of his long sleeved shirt, red speckled across the blue, across his right cheek. His feet are covered in it. 

_Red, white, and blue_. It’s not far off.

He turns around and stops to listen at the stairwell door again before opening it and slipping out into the stairwell, leaving bloody footprints behind.

\--

He ran out of bullets a couple minutes ago ( _two minutes, fifty-seven seconds; twelve agents eliminated, thirteen remaining in the room_ ). Natasha splintered from him and took the other ten down the hall, and he's not sure if Clint's in the building or where Stark is but he's guessing they're occupied with their own mass of troops somewhere. He's assuming the mass majority of them came to this floor. It's not hard to see into the communal living space from the outside if you've got a good telescope and are in a nearby building, and since he was dancing with Natasha for at least an hour they must have based their attack on the only space they could clearly see him ( _one of them_ ) in for longer than twenty minutes. 

The Hydra agents are stationed all around the room but clustered. Four behind a table in the corner, four more behind the main dining table across from the kitchen, three more in the kitchen itself and two trying to get closer to the couch that he's ducked behind. They've realized that he's no longer firing a weapon and are slowly encroaching on his _trench_ \- where he's covered, and he's pretty sure the couch is only holding up because of Pepper (" _She told me I had to reinforce the couch if I wanted to have three of my suits sitting on it at once. I mean come on they're not **that** heavy- _ "). The only reason they're being so cautious is because they know who he is and what he can do.

( _Fuck,_ he hopes Steve's okay.)

He can't focus on Steve right now.

If he could just get them to break formation he'd have a shot, but as things stand now he's trapped unless he wants a bullet to hit him somewhere vital, which won't get him anywhere. Part of him doesn't want to risk it ( _severe damage possible to vital organs_ ), another part of him wants to say _fuck it_ and throw training and caution to the wind and _charge_ the bastards. 

But he can't take Hydra down if he's dead or captured, and he can't do that to Steve. There's still vicious, bitter anger humming under his skin but it doesn't help him so he's tuning it out, focusing. He needs to think of _something_.

He feels the air displacement before he sees or hears it, the giant metal shield flying over the top of the couch and taking out the two agents encroaching on him in the process. It _bounds_ off of the wall at an angle and goes _left_ , distracting the four agents behind the smaller table and redirecting the fire of the agents behind the dining table and in the kitchen. Bucky doesn't waste time, rises and _vaults_ over the back of the couch and _dives_ into the kitchen in between the confusing hail of gunfire ( _minor damage, four grazes, unimportant_ ). He catches sight of Steve on his way by but it's a blur, and they're both distracted enough that the monsters humming under their skin ( _claw rip tear_ ) are distracted too.

He tackles the three agents in the kitchen, snaps one agent's neck with his metal hand while they're caught off guard then lifts up just enough to dart a hand up on the counter in the direction of the kitchen knives and grabs two, brings them _down_ into the other two agent's throats, blood streaking up his cheek and into his hair in an arc. It's messy but it's efficient, and he doesn't have the time to be merciful (and judging by the slow sweep of satisfaction he feels at the carnage, he wouldn't be merciful even if he _could_ ). 

Those three taken care of, he reaches back up and grabs the rest of the knives out of the holder on the counter and throws three at the agents across the kitchen's bar mostly hiding behind the dining table, hitting two in the arms about to pull their triggers on their guns and the third into a third agent's neck, distracting the fourth. He follows immediately after the throw and vaults himself across the bar, two knives in hand.

It doesn't take long to kill the last agent behind the dining table ( _one point three seconds_ ) and then he's moving, crouched low near the bar stools and glancing around the corner back into the rest of the room.

He immediately registers Steve. Then he registers silence.

Steve's covered in blood- Well, _sprayed_ with it, considering their skill level, so this _isn't_ the first group of Hydra agents he ran into. There's three streaks of red across his dark blue shirt going in different directions and various streaks of it on his arms, a mist spray of red on the side of his right cheek and on the right side of his hair. There's blood staining up the bottom of his jeans and fading up a little past his ankles. The tops of his feet have a thin layer and there's blood under his toenails. 

It’s a detail, a stupid detail, but it stands out, somehow.

There's blood on the bottoms of his feet, too, bloody footprints all over the floor (Bucky can see the tight formations they make, the control in his steps and the lack of it).

The lower half of the shield's covered and there's a streak of it going up at an angle. It's dripping, loud in the silence.

There's adrenaline still pumping through Bucky's system and an old, repressed anger in his gut. The threat on the floor is gone but Steve ( _the Soldier_ ) is right there and they've barely seen more than a few seconds of each other in a _week_. 

And it's silent except for their hard breathing and he's gripping the knives tighter and Steve's gripping his shield more firmly in response (he can feel the Soldier- _Steve_ \- looking at him, watching him, _assessing him_ ) and he can feel the accumulation from the past week of not seeing each other rising to the surface and they lock eyes and-

They move at the same time, Bucky rising but still coming in low and Steve twisting towards him.

He brings the knife in his left hand in low in a side sweep, aiming for Steve's right side while his right hand brings the second knife up in an arc- 

Steve blocks the left knife with his shield and knocks it out of Bucky's metal grip but the right lightly slices up the length of Steve's left cheek before he can tilt his head back with it far and fast enough.

Steve grabs Bucky's right wrist with his left hand and _twists_ the second knife out of his grip, ignoring the _clatter_ of it on the floor as Bucky grabs his shield with his left hand and _yanks_ it out of his grip. The Winter Soldier flings it to the side, vaguely hears it _clang_ into the far end of the room while grabbing Steve's shirt with the same left hand and pulling him in and dragging him _down_ to drive a knee _up_ into his abdomen-

Steve headbutts Bucky in _hard_ response before grabbing the Winter Soldier's right shoulder with his hand and turning in a half circle, spinning around to Bucky's right side and elbowing him roughly between his shoulder blades when he gets behind him. Bucky moves with the force of it, turning in his own half circle and bringing his left fist up, hitting Steve across the right side of the face.

It changes the dance, the Soldier stumbling slightly with the knock to his equilibrium, just enough for Bucky (the Winter Soldier) to grab the back of his hair and hit him again and again and _again_ \- Bucky hooks his right leg behind Steve's left knee and _pulls_ the leg out from under him and then Steve's _crashing_ to the floor and the Winter Soldier is following. 

The Winter Soldier straddles the Soldier's thighs, blocks most of Steve's punches with his right hand and gets hit twice before he punches Steve again, dragging his left hand down to tightly grip his neck, _choking_ off the Soldier's air-

Steve doesn't make a sound, tries to jerk his hips up to throw him off but Bucky just tightens the grip of his thighs, grabbing Steve's left wrist with his right hand and _leaning_ over him, holding the wrist hard down against the floor. They lock eyes and _freeze_.

He wants to tear at him, paint him red, because Steve, the Soldier, is _his_ , has always been his, even when they were children. 

There's red on Steve and he lets out a quiet sound ( _growl_ ) because it's _blood_ but it's not Steve's but it _could_ have been and _no one else is **allowed**_. They fought in alleys and wars and years of lost time but he's always been the one to clean Steve up, clean his wounds and bandage him and take care of him and _Steve's blood has always belonged to_ _**him**_.

His eyes trace the small trail of blood coming out of the knife cut on Steve's cheek. 

They're both breathing hard.

Steve can hear the blood pumping in his ears and he's tensed, coiled, hurting, but it feels _right_ and it feels _wrong_ and the weight on him, _over_ him isn't quite like when they trained together or when he fought on his own. Bucky ( _the Winter Soldier_ ) is curled over him, back taut and muscles tight and Steve ( _the Soldier_ ) feels like _prey_ and _predator_ trapped under prey and predator. It makes him want to throw the weight off and drag it closer all at once and he's covered in red that isn't his and so is Bucky ( _the Winter Soldier_ ) and he's _angry_ and _hyper aware_ and suddenly just so- _**tired**_. They do this dance, have done this enough times that he doesn't know where it goes after this because they're always dragged away from each other after and he's waiting for it to happen and is _sick_ and _tired_ of it happening and _**he can't do it anymore**_ -

Steve (the Soldier) lets out a _breath_ , what he can beneath the grip on his neck. It's not tight enough to completely cut off his air but he kind of wishes it was and he's trying to slow his breathing so he doesn't get light headed but he also _wants it_. He looks up into gray-blue and _sees knows **feels**_ ninety-five and twenty-six and _so damn tired_. 

"Do it," he gets out roughly, quietly. Bucky (the Winter Soldier) stills, eyes slowly shifting to lock with his. "If it's you..." he doesn't finish, because he doesn't need to.

Bucky (the Winter Soldier) pauses, grip frozen on Steve's (the Soldier's) neck and his eyes locked on his. Steve (the Soldier) isn't fighting ( _why isn't he fighting they always fight they always get pulled apart they always-_ ), Steve looks...

He feels it then, the never ending cycle, sees the tired longing in Steve's eyes and _feels it,_ deep down, somewhere maybe even older than he is.

He leans further over Steve, slowly, watches Steve watching him, his hair gradually relinquishing itself to gravity and curtaining both of their faces when he dips down low enough. 

He stares into abyssal blue for a long moment before he leans down the last few centimeters and presses his lips to Steve's, softly, too soft for them having just tried to kill each other, too soft like the new beds in this gilded _cage_ that they force themselves to sleep in when they refuse to give in, before they fall asleep on the floor instead ( _stubborn, they're always both so stubborn_ ). Bucky (the Winter Soldier) closes his eyes in front of the only thing he's ever felt safe around.

Something _shifts_ , like tectonic plates sliding into place.

They break apart after a moment, Bucky lifting his head slightly and opening his eyes. Steve's staring at him with something that looks like _pain_ and _ice_ and _anger_ and _hurt_ and _age_ , everything they've felt for more years than they've lived. But he sees something down, down deep, unfolding like a flower to the first rays of the sun, something old and ignored and he can feel that deep down, too.

They both let out a quiet breath.

Then Steve is surging up against his metal hand and Bucky's giving in to gravity and their lips _crash_ together, tired and revitalized all at once, old and _new_. Steve's hands are digging his fingers into Bucky's ( _the Winter Soldier's_ ) hair and pulling him _down_ and Bucky’s sliding his left hand to the side of Steve's ( _the Soldier's_ ) neck and around to the back, pulling his head up off the floor enough to get him closer, _closer_.

They devour each other's mouths like this is the only time they'll get to, like eighty years of ignored then taken away feelings and emotions converging on a single point and cascadingin an avalanche over them both. He grips the hairs at the back of Steve's neck and delves his tongue into Steve's open mouth, shifts his lower half and _sparks_ glide up his spine, ignite heat low below stomach. 

They're surrounded by enemy bodies in a Tower that's their cage, in a city that's just as foreign to them as they are to themselves, but he can't bring himself to _care_. Steve can't seem to, either. 

He scrambles for the bottom of Steve's shirt and shoves his flesh and blood hand up under it, drags fingernails roughly over muscles and presses his palm flat against Steve's rapidly beating heart,can feel it through overwarm skin and it's the only good thing he's felt in a _long, long time_. Steve lets out a noise he's never heard before, something a cross between a pained _whine_ and a _growl_ , and let’s go of Bucky's hair, dropping both hands down to shove the bottom of Bucky's shirt upbefore breaking the kiss. 

Then Steve’s leaning up enough to press his mouth over Bucky's beating heart and Bucky’s _breath_ hitches. 

Steve's enhanced senses can pick up the vibrations through the skin and he lets out another _pained_ noise, digging his teeth into the skin the most gentle he's _ever_ bitten Bucky.

Bucky pushes him down after letting out a breath that sounds _punched_ out of him, licking a possessive stripe up Steve's neck before pressing his open mouth to his pulse point and biting _down_ with the same amount of gentle force before sucking hard. 

Steve lets out his own breath, hands skittering down to grip Bucky's hips and roll them. Bucky's legs spread and Steve grindsdown, letting out a quiet moan at the responding heat and friction there. 

Bucky keeps his right hand over Steve's heart and reaches down with his left, drags Steve's right hand up and places it over his own heart, covering the spot where Steve bit. He reaches down and fumbles with the button and zipper on his pants and Steve follows to do the same a second later. 

Their eyes lock as they finally get them open and Steve shoves his underwear down, both pulling their cocks out and _grinding_ against each other roughly for the first time, like a first kiss. Bucky lets out a cross between a _moan_ and a _growl_ while Steve sucks in a breath, Bucky pressing them together with his left hand, metal _warm_ and _cold (like them)_.

Steve lets out that same breath, right hand pressed over Bucky's heart and left digging back into Bucky's hair for a moment as he leans down and kisses him, roughly, deeply, putting in all of the emotion he's had locked up within himself for over _seventy years_ , everything he wasn’t _allowed_ to _feel_.

Bucky leans up into it, grinding his hips roughly, painfully against his own and Steve pulls his hand out of long hair to slam his palm down onto the floor, trying to dig his nails into it. He lifts himself up enough to curve over Bucky (the Winter Soldier), using the leverage to grind them into each other _harder_ , _pain_ and _pleasure_ both shooting up their spines and making them breathe harder, cocks leaking, metal fingers spreading it. They pant, breaths lightly huffing against each other's faces and moans layered with a symphony of _groans_ and _growls_ in the otherwise silent room. Bucky's metal hand slides out from between them and reaches back and down to grip Steve's ass, pulling him even closer, hips grinding together faster, harder _,_ their breathing picking up. It’s mostly dry and it hurts, but the pain is minimal. They’ve felt worse.

Steve can't think, neither of them can, and he's got a steady litany of ' _BuckyBuckyBucky_ ' streaming through his head, wiping everything else away, nothing like the chair ever did. He welcomes it, _grabs_ it with a vice grip and _holds onto it_ _like a lifeline_ -

He's getting close, knows Bucky is too because they're never far behind each other in anything they do. He presses his hand more firmly into the floor and pushes harder, heat building and coiling in the base of his spine.

Bucky shifts a little and manages to roll them back the other way, Steve moving with it almost seamlessly, and presses the hand he had on the floor to Bucky's back, _digging_ his fingernails hard into Bucky's shoulder blade.

Bucky leans back down, curving himself back over him like a beast and _slams_ his lips back into Steve's, _shoving_ his tongue back into his mouth, their tongues coiling in a warm, wet, battling tangle. There's a litany of ' _SteveSteveSteve_ ' in his head and he wants to hold onto it and _never let it go, never forget,_ _**ever**_.

Steve's dried blood layered feet scramble slightly against the shiny smooth floor for a moment before he presses his left one out flatand lifts his right leg, pressing his knee into Bucky's lower back to bring him down closer, Bucky's legs bracketing his hips. Their motions speed up, mouths parting enough to share hard breaths while they smear precum over their lower stomachs, across overheated skin, _moans_ and _growls_ and _groans_ crescendoing as the heat _builds and builds and_ -

Moments later they come, Steve first and then Bucky ( _he will always put Steve first_ ), eyes threatening to close but they force them to stay open, gray-blue locked on blue as their releases streak their stomachs and bunched up shirts. 

Steve digs his nails harder into Bucky's shoulder blade as he comes, dragging them _down_ roughly and tearing open his skin, sharing panting breaths. Bucky shifts slightly to the side after a moment, dragging his open mouth down against Steve's jaw and then back up, leans his head up slightly to press his tongue flat to the bottom of the cut he made on Steve's cheek and drags it up in a _slow, long slide_ , licking the blood away.

Steve makes a noise like a high, quiet _whine_ as he does it, and Bucky drops his head after a moment while he licks his lips to brush his mouth against Steve's ear.

" _Steve_ ," he says quietly, almost a whisper, _lovingly possessively reverently violently old new nothing and everything and **always**_ -

Steve shifts his head up, pressing his lips near Bucky's ear, " _Bucky_ ," he replies in kind, full of the same, full everything and nothing and _**always**_.

Their breathing slows as they remain there, Bucky pressing the side of his face to Steve's and Steve pressing his to Bucky's in return. Bucky's left hand slowly slides up, right remaining pressed against Steve's heartbeat, left sliding up over Steve’s loosened jeans and up his side, _up_. 

Steve lifts his left hand up, placing it back over Bucky's heart and moving his right up over his own head, resting the back of it on the cool floor, lets Bucky's left hand slide up over his shoulder, the length of his arm, metal palm pressing into his flesh one and metal fingers locking with his when it finds it.

They both close their eyes, listening to the other breathe, the soft whir of metal, the feel of a heartbeat beneath their hands.

The come has dried on their skin, uncomfortable, and there's five red trails dug into Bucky's shoulder blade, trailing down his back. Steve's got a ring of bruises around his neck and an even darker one on his pulse point, in the crease at the top of the back of his thigh, a shallow knife wound on his left cheek and familiar bruising on the right side of his face. It feels-

" _ **What the hell**_ -"

Footsteps, three sets, the smell of blood everywhere.

They both ignore it all, breathing in each other in sync with their eyes closed, because for once, their thoughts are quiet, and for once, the beasts within them are, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=711std)  
>   
>  Made by aprofessorstale look at that metal hand _look at it_. Also if you haven't seen that movie what are you doing go watch it.


	25. Sweeter than Heaven, Hotter than Hell

Tony's spent the last twenty minutes getting his lab suddenly overrun by Hydra agents after freaking out about a security breach and JARVIS getting shut down throughout the Tower. He had to call his newest suit to assemble on him ( _while getting fired at_ ) and then repulsor his way through said Hydra agents (twenty of them, _twenty_ , at least they knew better than to send two, though he would have preferred them to not send any _at all_ ). Then had to blast through the elevator doors on his floor, go up through the elevator shaft, pry open the doors on the fortieth floor _in a hurry_ ( _that's the floor that showed it had the most Hydra goons heading its direction before his entire **mainframe** crashed_ ) thinking whoever was up there might need help, and _what does he find_.

Honestly, he's not exactly sure _what_ he's found, but when he thought Barnes and Rogers fucking would be a good idea he didn't picture it happening _like this_.

Barnes is on top of Rogers, covering him like they're practically the same person, their pants are undone and it’s _obvious_ what they, most likely, just got done doing, doesn't take rocket science to figure out. He can almost _smell_ it over the blood in the room and _fuck_ this is _**not**_ what he had in mind when the idea popped up in his brilliant brain.

Speaking of blood, there is a _lot_ of it.

From where he's standing, he can see three pairs of heavily booted feet sticking out from around the corner leading to the kitchen, three of the chairs on the far side of the dining table are knocked over and there's blood covering its surface, there's two more bodies about ten feet from where Barnes and Rogers are attempting the physical version of a mind meld, four more practically laid out in a circle around them five feet from where they are on the floor. There's blood everywhere, pools of it. If he needed a reminder that these two were dangerous _this is it thank you very much_.

"Uh, guys," he tries, face plate popping up.

They don't respond, they don't even twitch. Hey, he's glad to see they've chilled out and aren't trying to beat the living daylights out of each other right now but this is _so not the time_.

Natasha chooses this moment to drop down from a panel in the ceiling five feet to his right, guns held up and uncoiling from the floor like a cat ( _feline traits, must be an assassin thing. Yes, he's noticed, he's a scientist, it's what he does_ ). She's got a cut above her left eye, a swollen lip, and a few bruises around her neck, but other than that she seems to be holding up.

Tony sends her a confused, helpless, _pleading_ look and gestures in the other two assassin's general direction and watches her eyes follow the movement, widen, then school so quickly he's not entirely sure he _saw_ what he saw ( _which means he probably did_ ).

"James," Natasha says firmly, training her weapons on the two.

That gets a stir from Barnes and cracked open eyes from Rogers, at least they seem to be _listening_.

He sees Rogers’ eyes shift from himself to Natasha then to Barnes, fingers twitching in their metal bind.

Rogers says something too quiet for anyone but Barnes to hear, and after a moment, Barnes must say something in return because his head lifts slightly briefly before he's pulling himself up, those feline traits showing in the smooth roll of a lift ( _and even Tony can see the reluctance in his wanting to move, at least that's something other than 'I plan to snap and kill you all now.' He'll take it_ ), sitting up on his knees over Rogers’ hips and giving everyone a view and _sweet mother of_ \- 

Tony cannot think about this right now. There are serious things going on and now is not the time to fulfill years of curiosity about men he thought were dead and _oh sweet first gen arc reactor_ Barnes is tucking himself back in and now _he's tucking Steve back in_ \- 

Tony forces his eyes up to the ceiling, then over to Natasha, who's watching with her patented _unreadable look_ ( _Tony really needs to learn how to do that look because it would save him so much trouble, he's sure_ ). He lets his eyes wander back after a few moments and, sure enough, coast's clear, if you ignore the white stains on their shirts that Tony's not going to think about it; _he's not_. 

"There's more on the way," Natasha says, drawing their eyes from each other to her, "We need to go. Clint's waiting for the all clear at the back of the building with an SUV. We're going to a safe house."

Tony's back straightens. "But if I can get JARVIS up and running, the security protocols will lock back in place. I just need a few minutes to figure out what they did, then I can come up with a counter measure-"

"Can you do it within the next three minutes," Natasha cuts him off, giving him a look.

Tony's quiet for a moment, calculating, before he lets out a sigh. "No," he replies, looking around, "It'll take me at least a few hours to run full diagnostics on the entire building. The only good side to all of this is that everything they might be interested in taking goes under secure lock down. Whatever they did to the building, it'll take something a lot more to break into the Disney Vault."

Natasha gives a short nod after he finishes and then starts walking towards the elevator shaft, taking her aim off of Rogers and Barnes. Rogers and Barnes uncoil from the floor and Rogers heads over to the dining table, walking around it and picking up something from- Oh. His shield. Tony's not even going to ask.

He, Barnes, and Rogers follow Natasha's path down the hall (and he's careful not to step on the bodies or in the blood; Barnes and Rogers don't seem to care, but given that the bodies are Hydra agents Tony can understand).

Natasha's guns are holstered by the time they get there and she's looking over at Tony.

"Doors," she says, glancing at Rogers, then Barnes before shifting her gaze back to Tony, "You'll have to carry us down. It's the quickest way and we're running out of time. You have enough energy left?"

Tony nods and pries open the elevator doors. As soon as they're open, he turns back around and takes a look around the tower for a moment, then at the three of them. "Well," he says, holding out his arms and dropping the face plate back down, "Hop on. One Iron Man express to the garage floor."

Natasha steps onto his left foot and loops her arms around his waist, pressing in close; Barnes hooks his left arm around the back of Tony's armored neck and shoulders while stepping onto the right foot, looping his right arm around Rogers' waist and pulling him in close, who in turn wraps both arms around Barnes' waist. 

Tony wraps his arms around all of them, careful to be a little slower with Barnes and Rogers ( _he'd like to live to see the Tower returned to pristine condition and show Pepper his latest gadget while they argue over art pieces being ridiculously priced thank you very much_ ). He does a quick check to make sure that they're all secure before taking a couple steps back and letting them drop down the elevator shaft three-fourths of the way before buffering the last twenty feet with the feet repulsors. They land with a heavy, metallic clang.

"I believe this is our stop," he tries joking, letting them all pull away. He walks forward towards the doors that lead to the parking garage, pausing when Natasha places a hand on his suit. Tony gives her a nod before reaching up and pulling the doors apart as quietly as he can, first just enough so that he can scan the parking garage for any Hydra agents, then wide enough for all of them to slip through.

It's deserted, and Hydra avoided his cars ( _small mercy_ ), so they make their way as quickly down the length of the garage as they can.

There turns out to be a few agents stationed near the exit, which Barnes and Rogers take down in a brutally efficient display of deadly grace and synchronized movement. Tony'd have more time to be impressed if he wasn’t focused on keeping his eyes from looking at the dried blood covering the shield.

As as soon as it's clear, Barton pulls up in a dark green, 2000 Chevy Tahoe with tinted windows, perfect for blending in with the crowd.

"Not black?" Tony jokes, gesturing with his hands to disassemble his suit, pieces flying into the back of the truck.

"Nah, that's Fury's gig," Clint responds with a quirk of his lips, black sunglasses covering his eyes and a plain baseball cap hiding his gold hair.

Tony climbs in after Natasha - who then climbs into the passenger seat - Barnes, and Rogers, looking out the window at the Tower passing by after the door closes. He lets out another sigh and pulls out his untraceable phone, beginning diagnostics.

He watches Barnes and Rogers off and on out of the corner of his eye as they drive through back roads and traffic. Natasha's pulled a blond wig and sunglasses out of the glove box and pulled on the coat Clint was wearing. She's feigning interest in the cellphone in her lap.

Tony's slouched down pretty far in the back seat, staying close to the door and out of the line of sight of any street cameras that might catch him through the windshield. Even with all of the windows tinted, he'd still rather not take the chance.

Rogers is pressed up against Barnes, two Jack's making up the top of a house of cards trying to rebuild itself and stand against the wind of years of abuse and killing. They don't talk much, not that it really matters that he's noticed, since whenever they do talk it's a whisper into the other's ear. Their fingers are locked together again, this time flesh with flesh. He thinks of the bodies littering the tower, the bodies that had surrounded them in something resembling a circle and all of the blood on white ( _Tony already warned Pepper about the Tower being a target site before any of this happened. If he went radio silence for more than twenty-four hours it was a sign that she should stay away and play like nothing's out of the ordinary. Her plan, she's brilliant like that, but it also means she won’t see the devastation unless it’s brought to her attention; Tony’s hoping she’ll never have to, as unrealistic a wish as that is_ ). They almost look like two teenagers, children even, and he's trying to reconcile everything he's read and seen of them from the forties with everything he saw and knows as of today.

He knows Barnes and Rogers practically grew up together, " _childhood friends who were inseparable on the schoolyard and in the battlefield_ " ( _yeah, he's seen the Smithsonian exhibit_ ) and wonders what the world would think if it could see them now.

Tony knows Rogers always tried to do what was right; he wasn't perfect, but he was a good man. He knows Barnes was book smart and a great sniper, but also kind in the way he was with Rogers, loving and familial in smiles and laughter.

But, Tony knows, it's the kind ones that are the most dangerous; the ones that care deeply and live to protect. They're the ones who would go to great lengths to keep another safe, because that's what love is. Love is slicing someone's throat open, breaking someone's neck, choking air out of someone's lungs all for the sake of another. Fear will only take someone so far and he's sure Hydra figured that out at some point, since they managed to bend Rogers as much as they have. Love is a much more effective method in getting what you want and have that person only ask you if it needs doing again, just to keep something they love safe. Men become monsters where love is concerned, and they are no different, none of them are.

He feels a prickle along his skin and blinks out of his thoughts, eyes shifting and catching gray-blue. Barnes is staring at him, face almost entirely unreadable, but not completely, it's open in a way it hasn't been since the start of all this ( _and Tony's choosing to take that as a good sign_ ). Barnes' eyes drop back to Rogers and then he's pulling him in closer, resting his chin against the side of Rogers' head. 

Rogers' eyes flick up to meet Tony's, something like pain and loss and peace there under the mask of calm, holding the stare longer than Barnes before he slowly closes his eyes.

They're men and they're monsters, and now, Tony can see just how much of that they're aware of.

He shifts his attention out the window for a moment before going back to his phone ( _thirteen percent_ ).

"We're taking the fight to them," he says after a few minutes into the silence; no one disagrees.

\--

The safe house, it turns out, is one of Clint's. It's an apartment in a shamble of an apartment complex in a less wealthy part of the city, old trashcans lining the streets and fire escapes galore. Some of the brick buildings look as old as Rogers and Barnes.

Clint leads the way after parking the truck in the alley on the right side of the building, stairs creaking under their combined weight as they all head up.

It looks better on the inside, but not by much. It has everything they need, though.

"So," Clint starts by pointing down the short hall, "One bedroom at the end - we'll have to take turns. Bathroom's the door on the left at the end of the hall. Kitchen, living room, fire escape,” he points to each, “And there's some extra sets of clothes in the bedroom dresser."

The apartment itself is on the same side of the building as the alley where they parked the truck. When Tony walks over to one of the three windows, he can see the Chevy four stories down. 

"Each window has optimal line of sight to most of the buildings on the left, all of the ones straight across, and some of the ones on the right," Clint says next, gesturing to the windows ( _one facing the alley, one in the living room, and one on the far side of the apartment, right next to the kitchen_ ), "If anything happens and you have to choose, go up, the buildings are close enough any one of us could easily make the jump. Except for Tony, so Rogers or Barnes might have to carry him if he can’t get his suit to him in one piece." Clint smirks, Tony flips him the bird, which makes Clint grin. Natasha just rolls her eyes.

Barnes has got a smirk on his face and Tony can almost see Rogers _smile_ , so he counts it as a win.

Rogers heads down the hall towards the bathroom with his shield after, Tony assumes, he’s scanned the space, Barnes following. He's not leaving bloody footprints around anymore, but of the five of them he's the most covered in, well, _everything_. Tony would laugh at the irony of that if it were actually funny. Instead, he heads to the kitchen while he checks on the Tower diagnostics ( _twenty-three percent_ ).

\--

Steve can feel the urge to be closer ebbing lightly under his skin, but ignores it. It doesn't feel like it did before, even when they were huddled together in a shared cage at S.H.I.E.L.D. It feels redirected, more calm, not gone but...better. 

Bucky closes the door behind them as Steve sets his shield down against the wall. He turns to face the shower as he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and over his head, folding it before setting it down on a small shelf above the toilet. Warm fingertips trace lightly down one of the scars on his back ( _high official in Romania, well guarded, the Winter Soldier shot him while the Soldier acted as a distraction; Winter Soldier stitched the wound at the temporary hideout they used until it was time for extraction_ ) a moment later and he feels lips rest gently against it for a moment, loose strands of hair tickling the skin of his back.

Steve lets out a breath and tries to force his body to relax. He'd tensed up as soon as the truck stopped and has been on alert since, knows Bucky was about the same. 

He doesn't turn around when Bucky pulls back, just undoes his jeans and slides off his underwear all at once and folds those, as well, peeling off the parts of his jeans where dried blood has almost glued them to his skin. He's never let his anger come out quite like that before, he's not sure what to think about it. The old him feels horror, the Soldier finds faults in efficiency, the mess he is as a whole can't fully process it right now. Steve shakes his head slightly, he'll dwell on it later, when he has time for the luxury.

Bucky's clothes join his on the shelf while Steve turns the shower on. There's no washer or dryer in the apartment and Barton said there were extra clothes, but he doesn't feel right taking them ( _part of him wants to be reminded of what he did, feel the guilt, another part wants to utilize whatever resources he can_ ), and they both remember how to wash clothes in a bathtub or a sink. 

He lets Bucky step in first before joining him under the warm spray, letting it wash off the dirt and grime and blood. After a moment of watching the red slide off of his skin and trail down the length of the tub, he lifts his arms, wraps them carefully around Bucky's waist and leans his head down to rest his forehead between the metal of Bucky's shoulder and neck. 

"This doesn't solve everything," he says loud enough for Bucky to hear around the water, feels Bucky tip his head back and turn it slightly, mouth near Steve's ear.

"I know."

"We shouldn't involve them further," Steve says after a few moments, they'll talk about their problem later.

Bucky's quiet for a moment before reaching up and resting his flesh and blood hand on Steve's left forearm wrapped around his waist.

"They want to help," Bucky says quietly, just loud enough for Steve to hear between the rush of water.

Hair plasters itself to his forehead and he lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly against Bucky's skin.

"We'll only get them killed."

He feels Bucky tilt his head a little further. "Everyone dies." He grips Steve's arm gently. "Even us. Third time's the charm I hear."

Steve huffs a small sound at the joke, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "I don't want to hurt any more people who have only been trying to do good, even if I feel undeserving of it. We can choose now," he says after a little bit.

He hears Bucky let out a sigh after a moment of silence, quiet in his thoughts. "’Hunt down the bad guys’?" Bucky asks, fingers massaging Steve's arm gently, "Hard thing to do when I'm a bad guy myself."

Steve lifts his head at that, turns his face towards Bucky's and waits for him to open his closed eyes. Bucky does after another moment, feeling the stare on the side of his face. He tilts his face towards Steve's.

"If you are then I am too," Steve says, steel in his voice. Bucky starts to shake his head before closing his eyes again briefly, sighing in defeat.

"We'll be arguing over that for forever," Bucky finally says, a dark smile on his face as he looks back.

"Maybe," Steve replies, a small smile managing to curve up the corners of his own lips. "Will you come?" he asks seriously after a minute, voice a little quieter and smile no longer on his face.

Bucky stares at him seriously for a moment before he gives him a look, one eyebrow raised and a smirk quirking his lips. "'Till the end of the line, you know that."

Steve's eyes sting and it's unexpected, he hasn't felt tears prickle at his eyes in years. He closes them after Bucky's face softens, feels lips pressed gently to his forehead.

"'Till the end of the line," Steve answers, quieter, water running clear down the drain of the tub.

\--

They emerge ten minutes later, Steve's hair in a towel-scrubbed induced disarray ( _Bucky's fault_ ) and Bucky's a half tangled mess ( _Steve's fault_ ) with towels around their waists and their dirty clothes in their hands. Natasha's sitting at the table across from the kitchen, face cleaned up and checking over her weapons, Tony's on his phone leaning against an arm of the ratty old couch in the living room, and Clint's leaning against the wall next to the window that overlooks the alley, arms crossed over his chest and eyes scanning the angle he has outside, keeping watch.

Natasha looks up when they come out ( _watchful, assessing, brow quirking at the state of their hair_ ) and Tony ( _a once over for each of them, a smirk_ ). Clint's eyes dart over and he gives them a small smile before focusing back on the alley and their truck outside. 

Steve and Bucky go into the kitchen, block the drain of the sink and turn on the water, letting it fill up. 

Once it does, they soak their clothes in the water side by side, warm skin of their arms pressing together as they scrub. No one asks about them not using the offered clothes, no one says anything, just keeps to themselves.

"Diagnostics are at fifty-three percent, but from what I'm seeing they used some sort of internal EMP-type burster code to take JARVIS offline, like a shock to the system," Tony says after ten minutes, miming holding defibrillator paddles and shocking his chest, making a face.

Clint snorts before schooling his own face, looking at him. "So it was only long enough to get people in and get _them_ out." He nods at Bucky and Steve.

"More or less," Tony replies, eyes back on his phone, "It'll only last an hour. They were confident," he finishes with an offended twist of his lips.

"They must not have accounted for how much the cube would do," Natasha chimes in, looking up from her pistols, "So if it was someone in S.H.I.E.L.D. that was working for Hydra, either they didn't have enough clearance to be informed, or..."

"Or Fury didn't tell them anything and kept it to himself," Clint finishes for her.

"This might be one of the few times I'm actually glad that guy is as paranoid as he is," Tony comments, looking up at Clint and then Natasha, "Still doesn't help us figure out just how high up Hydra is in S.H.I.E.L.D."

Natasha's eyes move back down to her guns while Clint's face scrunches up, eyes shifting back to the alley.

"And we can't figure that out on our own as things stand now," Clint pieces together, "Unless Fury manages to figure it out, we'll have to resort to using bait as a lure." He glances over to Steve and Bucky. 

Tony makes a face. "I don't like it."

"No one does," Clint replies, eyes darting to Tony's before going back to the alley.

Steve pulls his jeans out of the water and twists out the extra over the sink before laying them out flat on the counter to dry; they're both listening, calculating, examining the options.

Bucky glances at him and he nods his head.

"We'll do it," Bucky says after a few moments of thoughtful silence, drawing all eyes to him as he wrings out his own pants over the water, dripping sound filling the space, "If it's the only option, we'll do it."

Steve wrings out his shirt and underwear next, laying them out on the other side of the counter before turning around to face the others.

"Hydra must be stopped," he starts, straightening his back and standing tall; he feels like he's in the war room with Colonel Phillips, Peggy, Howard, and the Commandos all over again and for once, like he’s not the one receiving orders ( _a directive_ ), but it’s worlds away from where he is now. "We start running, they'll never let us stop," he tries to keep his voice clear, louder than usual. It's not as hard to do as it was a few days ago.

Bucky lays out his own shirt and socks with his pants and turns around, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Besides, much as this is more familiar surrounding than the Tower, I can't say I miss the crappy heating and lack of air conditioning," he jokes, putting on a cocky smile. His expression shifts back to serious after a moment. "I'm tired of being a whipped dog. Stark was right in the truck, it's time to take the fight to them."

Natasha stares at Bucky for a few moments and Steve sees them communicate with eyes and small, minute facial gestures, feels a slight tug of something in his chest but chooses to ignore it. After a minute, she gives a decisive nod, rising from the table and re-holstering her guns. 

"Tomorrow, then," she says calmly.

Clint runs a hand through his hair while looking at the ground before he lets out a breath, looking back up at Barnes and Rogers and giving his own nod of agreement.

Tony lets out a loud groan. "I _really_ don't like this. Isn't there something else we could do? Even running in with an _arsenal_ sounds better than offering you two up as bait, at least then if something goes wrong they’re less likely to catch and brainwash you two again."

Steve shifts, swallows the guilt over Howard and Maria and looks Tony in the eye for a long minute. He tries to avoid looking Tony in the eye if he can, they're different people but he still sees Howard and a careening car, smoke, still feels the recoil from the rifle. 

Tony blinks once after a minute before sagging slightly against the couch, knows when it's pointless to argue, for once.

" _Fine_. But if this goes sideways? _Terrible_ idea, and I will be the first to let everyone know it."

Steve gives a small smile in response; Tony's eyes widen a little before his own lips twitch up in return. Steve can hear the quiet laugh in Bucky's chest as he leans back against the counter; Steve crosses his own arms over his chest and soaks in the sound.

_Sixty-five percent._

\--

Clint takes the bedroom first while Natasha takes his place to stand watch. Tony's been on his phone and has taken up the second chair at the small table, elbows braced on it and eyes glued to his screen. He's keeping an eye on Barnes and Rogers though, too; it’s starting to become a default action.

They're both sitting on the couch now, shoulder to shoulder, _with just towels on_ \- ( _now is **not** the time, his fifteen year old self can **wait**_ ).

He turns his attention back to the glowing screen in the ever dimming room, night's falling and they all need rest. 

When he darts his eyes back up to the couch a few minutes and rapid code typing later, Rogers is still sitting there and his arm is moving slightly but _Barnes has disappeared_ \- Oh. Wait. He thinks he knows what's going on. He pauses his typing and glances back at his phone; eighty percent. He gets up out of the chair and quietly makes his way over.

He gets close enough to the arm of the couch Steve’s sitting next to that he can see Barnes’ right shoulder and side, then a towel and a leg, then his face. Barnes' eyes are closed and he's got his head in Rogers' lap, facing away from him. Rogers' fingers are slowly stroking through his hair, carefully and gently working out whatever tangles and knots they runs into. Barnes appears to be asleep, but Tony wouldn't bet his life on that.

"Thank you," Rogers says, quietly after a moment. Tony jumps, fingers clutching his phone, screen gone black in idle.

"For what?" he asks, staying outside of Barnes and Rogers' little bubble. He doesn't feel particularly inclined to burst it by standing too close.

Rogers looks up at him ( _he has noticed that Rogers rarely looks him in the eye, out of guilt he's assuming, whether Tony's forgiven him or not_ ), fingers shifting slightly to scratch gently at Barnes’ scalp. Barnes curls up a little tighter, shifts back a little closer.

"For everything you've done, for helping us, for fighting with us," Rogers replies, eyes dropping back down to Barnes, "You didn't have to, had every reason not to, but you did. Without you...I can think of thirty-seven different scenarios in how the situation would have been much worse just without your car to get us away _alone_. And I am grateful."

Tony swallows, hears the sincerity in Rogers’ voice, can see it on his face now, and it's harder to take because he knows how valuable it is, knows where they've been and how far they've come in the weeks since S.H.I.E.L.D. brought them in. It's got the kind of depth to it that you can't just brush off or ignore, the kind you feel deep down in your bones that makes you ache, makes you want to hold it in and push it away all at once.

"Even if I hadn't known about my father, I would have helped," Tony finally replies just as quiet, serious, "And not just because of the 'Captain America' thing. But knowing about it makes it...all the more important that I do."

Rogers looks back at him for a long moment before closing his eyes and nodding once, opening his eyes after and looking back down at Barnes. They're like magnets.

Steve is quiet for a minute and Tony thinks that might be it, but when he starts thinking of heading back over to the table, Rogers speaks up.

"Is that what S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted," he starts, voice low with a hint of _something_ there, anger, regret, maybe, and so many other things, "’ _Captain America’._ "

Now it's Tony's turn to think, going over what he knows and putting himself in Fury's position, in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. 

"I can't say I know for sure, but probably, yeah," he answers honestly. Steve's got his eyes on the ground and his face has gone eerily blank, the most blank Tony's seen it since the mask and goggles came off. "Look," he starts again, letting out a quiet sigh, "I don't trust Fury, especially when he's acting altruistic. He probably wanted 'Captain America' and 'Sergeant James Barnes' on his side, to join the Avengers, maybe even run S.H.I.E.L.D. ops for all I know.” Tony watches Rogers’ face, looking for any reaction. He sees the increased tightness around Steve’s mouth. “Before you start thinking it, I _know_ you're not that guy anymore; I can tell you don't think you are either. A lot has happened since then, it's not surprising, and I don't expect you to be. None of us are who or what we were. But that doesn't mean I don't see hints of that guy in there sometimes; he's not completely gone, either. I'm not saying you need to be _Captain America_ again or Barnes needs to be _Sergeant James Barnes, Howling Commando_ , to be someone you aren't, but you're not just _the Soldier_ or _the Winter Soldier_ anymore, either. And as long as you aren't trying to, I don't know, rip my spleen out or destroy the world or anything, I've got your back."

Steve's eyes widen before he's looking back up at Tony again and Tony can see the shock and, oh hell, he just made Steve Rogers, Captain fucking America, the fucking _Soldier_ get _teary eyed_. He's not sure if he should panic at that or feel pride. He'll go with door number three; be glad that Steve Rogers can now show that much emotion after _everything_.

"Besides," Tony starts, putting more levity in his voice; he puts a hand on his hip and pulls out a smirk, "We're _connected_."

Rogers blinks up at him for a moment before his eyebrows draw together, confusion on his face and Tony can _see_ it now.

Tony grins and waves a hand, heading back over to the table. "Nothing, just a little inside joke with a friend of mine."

Rogers' eyebrows smooth out and a small smile blossoms onto his face; Tony hears the quiet " _Thank you_." That's twice now Tony's gotten him to smile and it makes his steps a little lighter.

He feels Natasha's eyes on him the whole way, risks a glance and sees she's got a smile of her own on her face, too.

\--

"He turned out alright," Bucky mumbles quietly enough that only Steve can hear, a few minutes after Tony’s sat back down at the table and lit up the room with the glow of his phone again. Steve moves his fingers a little more to the side as he massages Bucky's scalp.

"Better than alright, I'd say," he replies just as quietly, smile still on his lips.

Bucky cracks a small smile of his own but keeps his eyes shut, shifting and turning over after a moment to press his nose to the light trail of hair above the top of Steve's towel. Steve lifts his hand enough to let his fingers trail lightly across Bucky's forehead when he turns, then back through his hair. Bucky shifts his left arm and grips Steve's hip gently, two metal fingers grazing warm skin and the rest burying themselves in white towel. Steve's been trained out of automatically responding to temperatures that aren't extreme, but the cool, metal digits still send a slight shiver up his spine for a different reason.

Bucky moves a little closer, pressing his forehead to Steve's skin and the towel and breathes him in.

It's not sexual, just...touch. It's pleasant, calming, grounding. 

"You were my first, you know," he says after a few minutes of silence, keeping his voice down.

Bucky's smile spreads slow and a little lascivious, metal fingers squeezing his hip gently. "I know."

Steve blinks down at him, raising a brow slightly. " _'You know'_?" He knows Bucky can hear the slight incredulity in his voice.

Bucky's smile edges into a smirk and he finally opens his eyes, glancing up at Steve. "Of course _'I know'_. Even with the war we were never far apart, and when we were I could still read you like a book. Don't forget we shared that apartment, too."

Steve huffs a slightly indignant breath. "What if I did something during the war then, smart guy? What if Peggy and I-"

"Nope," Bucky cuts him off, his eyes closing again. It feels good to... _bicker_ , he hasn’t had a light conversation with Bucky in _years_. 

Bucky’s smile is definitely a smirk now. 

"But-"

"Nope."

Steve huffs out another breath, pulling a few strands of Bucky's hair gently in retaliation.

Bucky tilts his head slightly and presses a kiss to the skin just above Steve’s towel; Steve's lips quirk of their own accord.

"...I'm glad it was you," he says quieter after a few moments, curving over Bucky a little.

Bucky opens his eyes again briefly to look up at him, expression softening before he closes them once more. "I'm glad it was _me_ , too," he replies, teasingly after a minute.

Steve pulls his hair again.

Bucky rumbles a quiet laugh, the vibrations travel deep under Steve's skin and make him feel warm.

\--

They trade places after an hour while waiting for their clothes to dry, each getting snatches of sleep. It’s not much, but then again they don’t need much, and they keep each other from screaming during a nightmare.

Steve's now got his head in Bucky's lap, facing away from him, Bucky's fingers sifting gently through his hair in return. The room is dark, the only light a blue-white glow coming from the screen of Tony's phone, who's now sitting up against a wall near the table and pressing keys rapidly. Bucky feels more than sees her when she approaches.

Steve got his nightly visitor, now it's time for Bucky's.

" _Natalia_ ," he says quietly in Russian. He can feel her mockingly annoyed look at using the name from where he’s at. His lips quirk.

" _Yasha_ ," she replies, a small, teasing lilt to her voice: retaliation.

Steve's shield is resting down next to his left leg against the couch and she doesn't get within it's arcing reach. Steve sleeps on a near hair trigger due to their training ( _and probably because he was in cryosleep more than Bucky, something that throws Steve just that little bit more off than him_ ). She's smart to keep her distance, but then she's always been smart.

" _You both seem to be doing better_ ," she says after a moment, honest, phishing.

" _We want to be 'real boys'_ ," he replies jokingly, sidestepping the inquiry while answering it all at once. Their conversations are always a tricky dance.

He hears her huff a quiet breath and shift. " _Stark was right about you two being bait, if they catch either of you again all of the progress that's been made will be wiped away_. _You'll be taken away from each other_."

He doesn't slow his fingers at all, doesn't twitch or flinch, doesn't alert Steve to anything, but he does swallow a little harder. "I know," he says a little quieter in English, voice serious in the darkness before switching back to Russian, " _And I would run, at least a little longer. But Steve is also right, we run and we'll never be able to stop. You know this, Natalia_."

She's silent, waiting. He lets his thoughts shift and settle. 

" _I don't want to run for forever, and Steve will never do it willingly. He has made his choice and it took him strength to do it, and I will follow him. I always do._ "

He hears her shift again, waits. It's her move.

" _I will kill you next time, if who you are now is taken away_ ," she promises just as quiet, a warm note in her voice, " _I will kill him, too_."

He lifts his head a little in her direction, sees her dark silhouette against the darker living room wall, quiet steel in his voice, " _That will be my doing and mine alone, if I am still around to do it. But_ ," he lets the steel fall away from his voice, from his eyes she can't see in the dark, " _If I die first, I will accept that_." He trusts her with this decision. She knows what it is to be turned into something you are not and should never be, so much so that you can't even remember what it is to be who you once were.

Fingertips trail lightly against his hair like wisps of smoke and he reaches up with his right hand to catch them, make them real; a promise.

Her fingers gently squeeze his before he lets them trail away, listens to her footsteps retreat near silent back to the window, the sound she allows her steps, for him.

He feels the prickle of eyes on him and angles his head down, knows Steve is looking at him, even if it’s hard for him to see with it as dark as it is in the room.

The prickle recedes and he lets out a quiet breath, leans down and brushes his lips lightly across Steve's temple. He'll follow Steve anywhere and Steve will follow him, they always follow each other, even if it's to Hell itself; they already have.


	26. Cause She's a Cruel Mistress, and a Bargain Must Be Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florence lyrics for titles are oddly fitting and addicting.

They trade off using the bedroom throughout the night. After Clint, Natasha takes it, who then manages to wrangle Tony into taking a break from code writing to sleep so he's not exhausted in battle or makes an error in his coding. Steve and Bucky share it at the same time, the bed's a queen so they barely manage to fit into it together. They start off facing each other, two commas lying mostly awake ( _when they offered to give it up to someone else who needed more sleep than they did, Natasha refused to take more than her share and Clint said he was fine, Tony just shrugged it off and said he needed to keep working on a counter measure for the Tower's systems_ ), then taking turns to sleep, first Steve with his back to Bucky and Bucky's arms wrapped around him, and later Bucky with his back to Steve and Steve's arms around _him_. 

They take turns waking from nightmares, Bucky screaming once and Steve twice, choking off one yell. They hold each other after a couple, face away from each other when there is no nightmare that needs reassurance. Steve has a feeling his psychologist would call it progress, letting out his screams and the two of them being able to turn away from each other for a change, but it all just feels so exhausting because of how on edge the nightmares make them both.

"There's so much ice, Buck," Steve would whisper.

"There's so much red, Steve," Bucky would struggle.

Rest is an event, but they succeed in getting what they need of it.

They come out of the bedroom a little after dawn has started streaking warm rays of light across the city. Steve woke with the sun, but Bucky had managed to fall asleep sometime while he was still sleeping, so he waits until Bucky jerks awake. Steve's eyes are the first things Bucky sees when he can focus on anything.

They make their way down the hall, Steve leading and Bucky dogging his footsteps. 

Natasha's at the kitchen sink gathering water in a glass, Tony's pacing behind the couch, phone still in his hands, and Clint's back at the alley window standing watch. 

Steve heads for the kitchen first to grab his clothes, they slept naked and threw the towels back on before coming out; Bucky follows.

Natasha gives him a glance while she drinks her water before heading over to the table. Bucky grabs his clothes puts them on efficiently, and leaves Steve in the kitchen, going over to sit opposite Natasha where they talk too quietly for him to hear, even with the serum in his system. Steve watches them for a moment before getting dressed himself, leaving the towel on the counter opposite Bucky's. 

Steve decides to head over to Clint leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the window, looking down the opposite length of alley that he can see.

They're quiet. Occasionally Steve can feel eyes on him (Natasha and Bucky), but he keeps his gaze on the alley, letting his eyes track cracks in brick walls and his mind plot the best angles for sniping and escape, an old program in an older mind.

"How do you feel about this terrible plan," Clint asks quietly after a few minutes of observational silence, keeping the conversation between them. 

Steve keeps his eyes focused on the alley, tries to keep his mind as carefully blank as his face.

"It's the best plan anyone's been able to come up with," he starts, voice similarly quiet but neutral, "Neither Bucky nor I could come up with anything as efficient in its simplicity."

He can feel Clint's eyes on his face after he finishes. He doesn't look.

"Yeah, but how do you _feel_ about it?" Clint asks, "Because you look calm as hell on the outside, but if I were in your position?" Steve looks up, sees Clint's eyes shift to the table (Natasha). "If the only plan was for me to risk every memory I got back, every feeling I could actually _feel_ again..." he trails off, gathering his words, lets out a sigh, "I wouldn't like it, especially after New York. I'd hate it. It'd scare me shitless."

Steve watches Clint, who doesn't elaborate on what happened in New York, but Steve can guess it's similar to what happened to _him_. He lets his thoughts roll and spike until their eyes meet. 

"I am," he starts, voice lowering a little quieter, "Scared. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, but I know I don't want to forget anything that's happened, anything that I feel." He doesn't let his eyes go to Bucky, because Bucky will know, like he _always_ knows, and will look at him, and he doesn't want that right now.

Clint watches him closely, trying to read what's in his eyes. Steve knows. Bucky's always been able to read his eyes, read them like Steve wasn't trying to hide everything he felt - anything at all - like there was nothing between them. Others don't have it as easy he knows, too, but it doesn't necessarily make him _un_ readable. Clint is the kind of person who reads people, is _trained_ to read people, Steve knows he'll at least see a little and it will be enough, whether Steve tries to hide it or not. He could hide things as the Soldier because there wasn't much _to_ hide, and what there was that needed hiding was easy to bury for its own protection, even if he was doing it subconsciously at first. But he's _Steve_ now and he's different, not all the way, but it's enough for trained professionals to get glimpses he doesn't necessarily want them to see. He's enough of his old self to be just that little bit more transparent when something's really affecting him.

"I can't make any promises," Clint says after a minute, letting his eyes shift back to the alley, "But I'll try. You guys deserve at least that much."

Steve swallows the sudden knot in his throat, darting his eyes back to the alley, body forced to relax. 

That's all he can ask any of them, if he dares to ask them at all.

\--

"Alright!" Tony lets out half an hour later, drawing everyone's attention, "I've finished the coding. I push this button and the Tower is mine and JARVIS takes no prisoners. _But_ , the power surge will be enough to find us, so I press this and we'll have to run like Hydra's already on our heels. So. Where do you guys wanna go?" Tony finishes, smirking up at the small group gathering in front of him.

"Well, they were at S.H.I.E.L.D. last, right?" Clint asks, playing with the tip of one of his arrows, "I doubt they pulled their moles out just because their plan didn't pan out. In fact, I'm willing to bet they left them there _because_ it didn't work. The Tower's our port in the storm and all, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is where we'll find them, or in this case, let them _think_ they've found _us_."

Natasha nods, taking a moment to think. "Fury said they've taken care of most of the damage to the security systems and the places where there was combat. He's as ready as he'll ever be."

"So, we go to S.H.I.E.L.D. claiming 'safety’, let the moles find us and Hydra make their move," Barnes adds, expression serious and, surprisingly, not blank, Tony notes.

"Natasha will go with us to meet with Fury and will work on that end to root out what is Hydra inside S.H.I.E.L.D.," Steve says, crossing his arms and taking command; Tony's actually surprised for a minute because he sounds a lot more like in the reels than he did yesterday, "Clint, Tony."

Tony jolts out of his thoughts, looking at Rogers.

"You and JARVIS will scour their systems, quietly," he continues, looking at Tony, "Have your suit ready, when things start to move it's going to get messy real fast. Clint will go with you as cover while you're a civilian, keep watch and on the look out for any agents acting suspicious."

Tony nods, because what else can he do? The plan's as sound as it's going to get, and Steve Rogers just took charge and gave them orders. Tony bites the inside of his cheek and tries to keep from grinning, glancing at the others. He can tell they've realized the same exact thing he has.

He sees Natasha's staring at Rogers before her eyes dart to Clint, then Barnes.

Clint's staring a little wide eyed at Rogers and trying to get it under control, but he's standing a little straighter, at attention, lips twitching.

Barnes is standing tall at Rogers' side, relaxed in a way none of them are around Rogers, like he was in the reels, but he's looking at Steve like he's a little in awe, like he saw something he thought he'd never see again and like he just got something back he thought he'd never have again, like maybe they aren't as fucked up as they thought they were, like hope and sunlight and _Tony's not sure he can handle these two for much longer_. They're so all over each other he thinks he might gag. 

His mental Pepper smacks him on the arm, tells him to shut up and let them be. He can practically hear her voice in his head scolding, " _Tony!_ " He misses hearing it aloud from the actual person.

They all nod in agreement and Tony presses the button. They move out.

\--

Steve leads the way out to the truck, Barnes right behind him and Natasha, Tony, and Clint behindthem. Clint breaks off to hop back into the driver's seat, scanning the area the whole time while Natasha reclaims the passenger seat, retrieving the discarded wig, sunglasses, and jacket she'd crammed into the glove box. Steve, Bucky, and Tony climb back into the backseat while Clint starts the truck, and then they're backing out of the alley, heading out of the part of the city they're in and back towards S.H.I.E.L.D.

They're pressed tight together to fit the three of them in the back, but Bucky presses his right arm more into Steve's, letting his eyes wander to where Steve's hands are resting on his thighs.

"I know," Steve says quietly after a few minutes, he's sure everyone else can still hear them if they try. 

Bucky's eyes dart up to Steve's face, watching his profile carefully. He's pretty sure he knows what Steve's talking about, but he waits; Steve will say what he has to say.

"I don't want to die, Bucky," Steve says a little quieter, Bucky can still hear the determination in his voice, "And I don't want you to, either." The truck goes a little eerily silent after the words; everyone's listening now whether they mean to or not.

Steve turns his head to look at him and their lock eyes briefly before Bucky's dart away, looking down at the floor of the truck.

Steve waits him out, because Steve always waits him out.

Finally, Bucky lets out a sigh. "I know," he says, just as quiet, turning his head as he looks back up at Steve, "But I won't go back there Steve. I won't," he finishes, expression hardening.

Steve smiles at him in a way he, for once, can't quite decipher. He's not sure how to handle that.

"I know," is all Steve says before leaning in and pressing lips to his. Bucky doesn't close his eyes even as Steve does, there's something he can feel in his chest and he doesn't know what to do with it or what it might mean; he feels unsettled.

They're quiet the rest of the way save for Natasha turning on the radio. Bucky keeps his eyes on Steve even after Steve leans down to rest his head on Bucky's right shoulder, ignoring Tony's babbling about the state of the current generation's musical taste to try and parse through the look that was in Steve's eyes. It pulls at a memory and his stomach sinks; it reminds him of when Steve fell after him on the train and grabbed his hand, both of them falling and never letting go even when their bodies shattered when they both hit the snowy ground. 

He tries to suppress a shiver and fails.

Steve rests a hand gently on his thigh and squeezes.

Somehow, it just makes him feel worse.

\--

Clint parks the truck in front of the Triskelion and they get out, head in through the front doors and towards the elevators. Eyes follow them the whole way, most agents in some combination of staring and gawking, caught off guard and unsure if they've got the clearance to approach or not, if they should try and apprehend them or not.

Clint breaks off from their group with Tony to get into their own elevator while Steve and Bucky file into one after Natasha, who clears them for the level of Fury's office. The doors open and there's an agent waiting to meet them on the other side.

"I'm Agent Coulson," the man says, offering a hand (in Steve's direction first. Bucky notes the brightness in the man's eyes and the confused wariness in Steve's with more amusement than he thinks he probably should. He knows starstruck when he sees it, saw plenty of it in 1943).

"Steve," Steve finally says, taking the offered hand hesitantly at first and then more confidently, Bucky knows Steve's still trying.

"Bucky Barnes," he introduces himself when the two are done, taking the man's hand and giving it a firm shake with his left. Coulson shifts a little with the strength of it but doesn't show his reaction on his face. This man's dangerous. Bucky likes him.

"It's an honor to meet you, both of you," Coulson says, stepping aside so they can exit the elevator, "Fury's office is this way." They follow Natasha who follows Coulson down a long, silver-gray, empty hallway. Bucky walks alongside Steve, bumps him with his shoulder. Steve gives him a look ( _stop teasing_ ). Bucky smirks with a slight leer and a raised eyebrow ( _not a chance_ ).

They stop outside Fury's office where Coulson opens the door and gestures them in. Steve and Bucky keep a read on Coulson's location the entire time as they follow Natasha in, stopping in front of a large, metal desk. Fury's sitting behind it.

Fury's silent for a minute while he stares at them, then calls to the room, "Secure room."

The room's windows go dark and the door locks. Steve and Bucky tense slightly, controlling it at the last minute while Natasha crosses her arms. She looks relaxed, but Bucky knows better, she's never liked sealed rooms.

"This is a stupid plan," Fury opens with, staring hard at them, "But it's the only one we've really got that beats around the bush and gets to the point. I won't ask if you're sure about it, but I hope you're prepared for possible damage."

Bucky doesn't look at Steve as they nod in unison, refrains from tightening his hands into fists and grinding metal.

Fury stares at them for another moment before giving them a nod, shifting his attention to the agent.

"This is Agent Coulson, whom you've already met. He can be trusted in this operation, I interrogated him myself,” he says. Coulson doesn't shift or fidget, just remains perfectly still and seemingly at ease. Bucky doesn't trust it, but if it turns out that what Fury says is true, he'll be glad that Coulson's on their side. He's not what he seems.

"I'll keep this brief because a long meeting will look suspicious," Fury continues, "We're going to take you two into holding, some place secure but still easier to get to than the cells we originally had you in. If Hydra does act, it'll be easier to spot who and when."

They nod to show they understand, both old habit and _trained_ habit, and Fury goes on.

"I trust you've got Stark and Barton running sweeps, and Natasha will be keeping a closer eye on things from the outside. Coulson," he nods to the agent, "Will be keeping an eye on things on the inside. He'll be near your cells at all times and will report and apprehend if anything happens. Gentlemen."

They stand a little straighter, it's the authority. Steve's done it for as long as he can remember, even before the programming, and Bucky does it because Steve does.

"Good luck," Fury finishes, releasing the room's security back to normal, then Coulson and Natasha are leading them out and back into the elevator.

They don't say anything as they ride down, they're being monitored, but Bucky subtly presses the back of his hand to Steve's, who presses his back in response. It's all they can afford to show right now.

The elevator doors open and there's a team waiting, dressed in black and armed. 

"Rumlow," Coulson says mildly, but Bucky thinks he can hear a slight distaste in the tone.

"Coulson," Rumlow replies, the edge of a smirk on his lips, but like he's trying to school it into something friendlier; it doesn't work. "Widow," he says towards Natasha with a small nod before shifting his attention to Steve and Bucky, "If you'll follow us."

They file out of the elevator and Bucky tries not to tense, forces himself to relax and keep walking when every nerve in his body is trying to tell him to take Steve and run. Whether it's a reaction to Rumlow, the need to protect Steve, or a variety of things, he's not sure, but he usually listens to his instincts and, brainwashed or not, that’s done very little to sway him from it. Rumlow gives him a slithery feeling all over his skin, and from how casual Steve's walking he must be feeling the same. Well, there's main Hydra suspect number one.

"We've been instructed to put you into separate cells due to how you escaped the last time you were here," Rumlow says as he stops in front of a door, using a thumb and retinal scanner to slide it open. " _Captain America_ ," he says with the same almost-there smirk. Bucky wants to slice his throat and watch his face fall in shock. He twitches his fingers minutely instead.

Steve doesn't react to the name or look at Bucky as he enters the cell. The door closes and then they're continuing down the hall to the next one. Rumlow repeats the scanning process with a, " _Sergeant,_ " that he ignores, and the door slides open. He gestures at the entrance and Bucky turns obediently and walks inside, keeping his face as carefully neutral as possible. Natasha brushes the side of his leg with the backs of her fingers as he passes ( _I'll be watching_ ). He lets his fingers twitch slightly in return ( _I know_ ). 

The door slides shut and he's alone. He lets his eyes catalog the room.

There's a large, dark viewing window to his right, a cot against the far wall that's bolted in with just a thin mattress on top, and a similarly bolted table and chair in the center of the room. There's a toilet and sink in the far left corner. 

"Home sweet home," he mumbles to himself.

" _Mr. Barnes_ ," he looks up, Coulson’s voice coming from overhead like JARVIS, from the speakers in the room, " _We've been informed of the peculiarities of your interactions with Mr. Rogers from the last time you were both in custody, and it has been strongly advised that we allow you both viewing of one another if direct contact is not possible. If you'll please direct your attention to the large viewing window to your right._ "

He does and the darkness of the glass fades, and Steve slowly comes into view. Steve's already looking at and facing the window and their eyes lock- Steve's shoulders relax slightly and Bucky's do the same. He didn't realize he'd gotten so tense ( _and whether that's progress or slipping up he's not sure. His psychologist would probably say progress, but he thinks it's too soon to be getting sloppy_ ).

He closes the distance to the glass and Steve does the same. He reaches up and presses his flesh palm to the cold surface, Steve mirroring him. It's a small gesture, but when you're in a cage, it means the world.

 _Let the games begin_ , he thinks wryly, that unsettled feeling increasing in his gut.

\--

Clint leads the way to the Triskelion's main server and Tony breaks the lock with slight rewiring and high speed hacking. 

"Is this going to take long?" Clint asks, feigning boredom, but he's looking over his shoulder to keep an eye on the hall.

"It will if you keep talking," Tony fires back, typing rapidly, "I'd like to see you try and break into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s high security defense system. I mean, _obviously_ , I can do it, who do you think I am? It's just a matter of- A _ha!_ "

The door slides open and they hurry inside, barely listening to the faint _swish_ of air as the door slides shut behind them.

"Now let's see..." Tony trails off, moving down the row of security towers, Clint keeping him guided to areas with zero visibility from the security cameras and helping him to avoid the various sensors.

Eventually they find a good spot to set up shop and Clint let's Tony get to work, crouched next to him and keeping an eye on the room.

"They'll pick up on us being in here if we take longer than fifteen minutes," Clint says, keeping his eyes focused on the room, "Our heat signatures will increase the room's temperature too much, they'll know something's up."

"I'll have this done in ten," Tony replies, already trying to patch in, "Just root around, try to find any traces of Hydra activity, and bingo, we're out of this place with the gang and ordering pizza."

Clint gives a snort. "Natasha likes anchovies."

Tony makes a face while he works before cocking an eyebrow. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me, and somehow it doesn't surprise me that you _know_ that."

Clint elbows him.

\--

" _Mr. Rogers_ ," comes Coulson's voice from the cell's speakers eight minutes later. Steve doesn't jump, stays leaned against the observation glass linking his room to Bucky's that starts at his waist, his shoulder pressed into it and Bucky mirroring him on the other side like a reflection.

"Agent Coulson," Steve replies, waiting.

" _I hope it's not too much trouble to ask, and my timing may be inconvenient, but I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor_."

"What is it?" he asks warily.

" _I have some Captain America trading cards I was wondering if you would be willing to sign_ ," Coulson asks, throwing Steve off for a second; he wasn't expecting that _._ Bucky notices. Steve can see him shift just the smallest bit.

"Agent Coulson, I'm not-" Steve cuts himself off, straightening a little. He can see Bucky turn a little more toward him in his periphery, reading his lips through the glass, he's sure.

Coulson's quiet for a moment before he speaks again, voice a little softer than the other times he's spoken. " _I understand that you have been through a great deal since you were Captain America_ ," he starts, " _But I find it hard to believe that that man is completely gone. Just meeting you today showed me that. You're much different from the man I first met when you were first brought in_."

Now it's Steve who takes a moment to think, eyes on the ground and fists clenching slightly. "How can you be so sure?" he finally asks, voice a little quieter.

" _I've seen every piece of film made of you_ ," Coulson answers. Steve hears a hint of wistfulness in his voice and it flusters him a little, the old him. " _I mean_ -" Coulson corrects, clearing his throat quietly, " _What I mean to say is, just seeing how far you've come since you were first brought in, and meeting you again today, I've seen parts of Captain America in there. The way you carry yourself, the look in your eyes when you see a fellow soldier, your presence. It's all there, if not exactly what it was before_."

Steve feels a slight sting at the backs of his eyes and sees Bucky lean a little closer against the glass in his peripheral. He blinks a few times to clear it and looks up at the ceiling. "I...I would be honored," he finally replies, making a decision. 

" _Captain, it is I who would be honored_ ," he hears Coulson say, then, " _They're vintage. Near mint. Took me a couple years to collect them all_." He can hear the pride in Coulson's voice.

Steve's lips twitch. He risks a glance at Bucky through the glass, can see him relax slightly and the small twitch of his own lips.

That's about the time the power cuts out.

\--

"Tony!" Clint squawks when all the lights go out.

"It wasn't me!" Tony half yells back, phone screen black and server off.

The servers and lights flicker back on after a moment. Tony's screen lights up but all of the data is gone.

"Whatever just happened it shut off _everything_. All of the data I was scouring through is back to where it started. I have to start all over!" he lets out, frustrated, already typing.

"Back up generators, which means the rest of the building that doesn't require immediate power has gone dark," Clint says, grabbing a hold of Tony's forearm and halting him.

Tony stops typing at the hold and turns to look at him. Clint's grim expression makes his own shift to match.

"There's no time," Clint starts, hauling Tony up.

Tony disconnects his phone as they go, letting Clint guide him around the cameras and sensors.

"Someone knows what we're up to," Clint says once they get to the door. Tony starts hacking into it again. "We can't stay here, it's even less secure than it was ten seconds ago."

Tony gives him a brief look before going back to the door, both of them dashing back into the hallway after it opens.

"We need to head up to the cells," Tony says, following Clint as they run down the dark hall, "If Hydra's attacking _now,_ Bucky and Steve are even less safe than they were before."

Clint nods, stopping at a corner and signalling Tony to do the same, taking a glance down both ends of the intersecting hall. It's clear, eerily clear. He doesn't trust it. They go left and head for the stairs. Clint gets the door at the end open quietly but stops when it opens about a foot and they both freeze. There's footsteps moving rapidly.

Clint closes the door just as quiet, pulling out his communicator earpiece and putting it in. "Natasha, we've got trouble," he says, waiting for a reply.

" _The Triskelion has gone dark_ ," she replies after a moment, voice clear in his ear, " _Fury and I are heading for Hydra's most likely exit points_."

"Tony and I are heading for the cells to get Barnes and Rogers," Clint replies, looking over at Tony, who nods.

" _Thirty-fourth floor. Coulson was assigned to watch duty. He's helping. Find him_ ," Natasha says, clipped.

"Roger," Clint replies, turning back towards the door to try and open it again. The footsteps are gone, so he enters the stairwell and holds the door open for Tony to follow, then closes it just as quietly behind them. "Natasha says they're being held on the thirty-fourth floor," he relays quietly, starting to make his way up the stairs.

Tony looks at the number on the wall and sags a bit. "That's _fourteen floors_ , _Hawkdumb_ ," he says a little snippily.

Clint snorts, glancing up at the numbers briefly as they reach the twenty-second. "With all that energy, you would think the great _Tony Stark, Iron Attitude_ would be able to make it up fourteen floors of stairs."

Tony gives him an offended look in the dim stairwell even though Clint's not looking at him since he's leading the way. "Yeah, well, all that energy goes into tinkering, this is just _boring_ and _anxiety_ inducing."

Clint gives an agreeing grunt, forging on ahead.

"I don't want anything else to happen to them," Tony says quietly after a few minutes as they run, huffing out breaths.

Clint's quiet for a moment, clearing the twenty-eighth floor.

"I don't either," he finally replies, meaning it.

They hear gunfire come from above and Clint's willing to bet his entire arsenal of arrows and favorite bow that it's coming from floor thirty-four.

\--

The lights go off for all of a second before they flick back on, and they both straighten. He looks over to Bucky, who looks at him, expression grim and determined and even a little bit worried. He hears the mic to the observation room for the cells flicker on a few minutes later and sees Bucky straighten a little further. So they can both hear it. It's not Coulson who talks, though.

" _Captain America_ and _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes_." It's Rumlow. He sounds as shady as he looked. " _The Soldier and the Winter Soldier. Gotta say, I'm not impressed, you two have dropped a long ways_."

"Where's Agent Coulson," Steve demands, strengthening his voice with his anger.

" _Busy with the another team, I'm afraid, no rescue coming to your aid_ ," Rumlow replies. Steve gets the impression he likes to hear himself talk. " _So here's the deal, we're going to take one of you back with us. We'd take both, but, well, time restraints and all that. Pushing too quickly got the Skull in a bind, we'd rather not repeat that bit of history_."

Steve tenses further as the door to his cell opens, sees Bucky do the same out of the corner of his eye. The team from outside the elevator earlier file into the room.

" _Nothing personal, Cap_ ," Rumlow says from overhead while the men moving in closer, " _Well, maybe a little. But, honestly, you're more valuable, and there's this little trick that those telepaths couldn't find that Zola did to you and not the Sergeant. Call it insurance_." 

Rumlow appears at the doorway and the team of agents part for him as he steps into the cell, pulling out a tuning fork. Steve goes from gradually growing fear and determination to confused in a flash.

Rumlow _dings_ the tuning fork on the table in the middle of the room and holds it out in front of himself, towards Steve, and looks him in the eye while saying in German, in the same pitch, " _Cracked slate_."

The words wind with the pitch of the turning fork into his head and something inside him _floods_ his mind like a slow _ooze_ and rapid frost all at once, black creeping into his vision.

The last thing he sees is Bucky's hands pressed to the glass and fear in his eyes. The last thing he thinks is the last time he saw Bucky that scared he was falling off a train. The last thing he feels is _terror_ because he's losing himself _again_ -

And then the world is black and he no longer sees or thinks or feels, not anything at all.

\--

Everything about Steve changes, he can see it in the suddenly blank eyes, the expression wiped away like it was never there, the shift in his posture from tall and refusing to mildly submissive, the unclenched fists and the way he looks at Rumlow, like he's waiting for an order.

It's the _Soldier_ , but it's _not_ the Soldier; it's worse than that. The Soldier at least had a _spark_ of _something_ , Bucky remembers that. The last time he remembers seeing him anywhere near this bad was after the tenth time they'd wiped him and finally succeeded, took out everything that made Steve _Steve_ and turned him into a blank slate, turned him into a _thing_. Parts of Steve resurfaced slowly after that, but it took time for them to float back to up, bob along the surface until they were forced back under, faster than most because of Steve's healing factor but still _slow_. Because that was the mind, you couldn't rush it, you couldn't force it, it had to come at it's own speed. 

But this is different, he doesn't remember this being programmed into Steve, or himself. Zola must have had it done to Steve when Bucky wasn't around, or when he was in cryo, because he doesn't _know_ what this _is_ and he doesn't _know what to **do**_.

Steve looks like a life sized doll and Bucky _**hates**_ it. He saw more of Steve today than he's seen in _seventy damn years_ and they just _took him away_ from him _again_ because this is his _life_ and _**he won't let them do it anymore**_.

He pulls back and hits the glass with his left hand curled into a tight fist, puts everything into it- It cracks on the first try and the team's eyes dart to him.

Rumlow smirks.

He's going to _**gut**_ him.

It shatters the second time and then he's vaulting over the edge of the wall that held the window and he's in the room, running at them. 

They open fire.

He blocks most of the damage with his left arm and uses his speed to get in close and avoid most of the rest. A bullet still hits him in the shoulder, the arm, the leg, the side, some grazing and some not, but he ignores the pain and knocks guns aside, squeezes a throat, breaks a neck, kicks a shin in half with unadulterated rage. 

They end up pushing the fight into the hall.

That's about the time Clint and Tony show up at the end of the intersecting hallways, Clint's bow raised and firing and Tony with his arms raised off to the side, his suit shattering through the Triskelion's glass windows and piecing itself together on his body before he's repulsoring the rest of the agents.

The three of them get through the team in a matter of minutes. Bucky leans over one of the bodies, pulls a gun and knife off it and aims back at the cell- 

Stops.

It's aimed at Steve. 

He doesn't falter, but he does shift his aim to Rumlow as soon as the man steps out.

Clint and Tony are behind him further down the hall and they're blocking the way. He's not sure if Coulson is still alive or where Natasha and Fury are but he's not relying on them, he can't. There's no time for it.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say Steve's not himself right now," Tony starts, repulsors aimed. Rumlow's not even using Steve as a shield, so Bucky watches him carefully. There's a reason for why he isn't. He only needs to keep Rumlow alive long enough to find out how to reverse this. Every protocol has an end. "What did you do," Tony demands, steel in his voice.

Rumlow smirks. Bucky can think of at least three hundred things he'd like to do to him.

"An old safeguard," Rumlow starts, can hear and see the smirk in his voice, "Something your telepaths missed. Zola paid one himself to put it in."

"Impossible. All of the triggers were removed," Clint says, keeping his aim.

Rumlow _clicks_ his tongue, waving the tuning fork. "It's not a trigger, it's a sleeper. The command suppresses all thought and memory to make him, essentially, a blank slate. He'll only follow orders from the voice that matches the pitch of the tuning fork, that I just so happen to be in possession of." Rumlow slips the turning fork into his pocket and pats a hand over it, relaxed as can be.

"So what's to stop me from repulsoring you into oblivion?" Tony asks, charging the repulsors up a little more. They sound like smooth static in his ears.

"I may have forgotten to mention something," Rumlow says after a moment, smirk going a little dark, " _Attack_ ," he says in German, pointing in Tony and Clint's direction. Steve darts forward with all of the speed and grace of the Soldier, not a hint of Captain America, and Tony falters. It's a mistake, because Steve is still strong as _fuck_ and now he's got the mind of a directive following program and years of training to follow it through.

Steve ducks in low and twists around to get to the suit's side, grabbing hold of Tony's right arm with his own right hand and gripping Tony's chin with his left, driving a foot near the repulsor panel on the suit's calf and denting into the metal with the force of it. Iron Man gets flung over the railing on the other side of the intersecting hallway, Tony letting out a shout and flailing as he falls, the damaged repulsor spluttering when he tries to use it before quitting completely.

Clint takes the opportunity to fire an arrow at Rumlow before Steve aims for him next, sending Rumlow right in Bucky's direction when he tries to avoid it. If they get out of this, Bucky’s going to have to buy Clint some expensive alcohol and at least five pizzas.

He drops the gun and grabs Rumlow by the throat with his left hand, taking the kick Rumlow aims to his outer thigh and punch to his abdomen as payment before slamming the man into a wall, retrieving the tuning fork with his right hand. 

" _What are the release words_ ," he half yells, dodging another kick and swing to headbutt Rumlow in the nose. Rumlow lets out a pained noise asred floods down his face, sputtering when it gets into his mouth. Some of it lands on Bucky and he turns his head just in time, letting the spray land on his left cheek instead. He won’t have that poison in his mouth.

Rumlow manages a grin through the mess and pain. "I'll never tell."

The _Winter Soldier_ leans in close. "You think I can't make you talk," he says more than asks, voice low and eerily calm.

Rumlow's expression pinches for a moment in something near fear before he smirks. "I know you can, but you don't have the time. _Attack,_ " he finishes in German.

Bucky barely dodges the punch aimed for his head and has to let Rumlow go to move out of the way of a roundhouse kick, turning and bringing up a leg to sweep a second kick aside with his own. 

Steve's fast, not that Bucky's forgotten, but they haven't actually trained seriously with each other in _weeks_. He's grown complacent.

He doesn't try to talk to Steve, just aims for an unavoidable punch to send him skidding into the left wall so Bucky can tap the tuning fork on it, adjusting the pitch of his voice.

" _Stop_ ," he commands in German. Steve's punch stops centimeters from his nose.

Bucky shifts and suppresses a groan, holding his cracked ribs with his right arm. He looks around, but Rumlow's gone, and Clint's down for the count. He can hear Tony's repulsors struggling before seeing him shoot up over the railing on the walkway intersecting the end of the hall and barely catching himself as he lands back on it. 

Bucky's eyes shift back to Steve.

"Steve," he tries, nothing, " _Steve_ ," he tries in German, Russian, still nothing. He presses his lips together in a firm line.

He leans forward after a moment, moving slowly, cautiously before leaning up just slightly and pressing his lips lightly to Steve's. He pulls back after a few seconds and looks him in the eye. 

Nothing. Just blankness. He feels a sting at the backs of his eyes and shakes his head slightly.

"Clint's got more injuries than I care to count, but all things considered, I'll take the fact that he's alive as a plus," Tony says from halfway down the hall, lifting the face plate to look at him, "Magic kiss work on sleeping beauty?"

Bucky looks around Steve and shakes his head slightly at Tony, making his way around Steve’s statuesque form to head down the hall towards Tony and Clint. He looks back at Steve as he goes and Steve's, for lack of a better word, idle. Steve’s stance is back to 'default,' but he hasn’t moved to turn from the direction he stopped in, didn’t follow Bucky or their voices. Hydra made sure he’d follow every command, even not so much as moving when not directed.

Tony gives Steve an angry, sad look before hardening his expression and turning his focus back to Bucky.

"Fury called, says he's got a lead on who might be heading the Hydra invasion inside S.H.I.E.L.D." he informs. Bucky's eyebrows jump just slightly at the information, it's all he can really muster beyond the anger coiled tight inside him. "Yeah, _invasion_. Would explain the lack of personnel running to cover the fight. Fury said he's got a helicopter waiting outside his office six floors up,” Tony finishes.

Bucky looks back at Steve again and then down at Clint. Tony picks Clint up and then shifts him to carry his weight bridal style. It's effective.

"Then we need to go," Bucky says, voice low and dangerous. He can almost see Tony swallow beneath the gold metal. "If Hydra's taken over most of S.H.I.E.L.D. then we can't be here any longer than we already have. _Follow_ ," he finishes in German in Steve's direction, leading the way out and to the staircase. Tony hesitates, looking back at Steve before flipping his face-plate back down and following.

The Soldier follows his orders.

\--

To say Bucky's pissed is an understatement. They get to the helipad with minimal fuss, Tony just blasting whatever Hydra agents try to head them off. They must have assumed Rumlow and his team would have taken care of the mission because there aren't nearly as many as there were the first time. Tony'd like to think it's because they're running out of agents, but he's not stupid.

Bucky doesn't use Steve to fight. In fact, regardless of the bullets, other than Tony taking down a couple agents, Bucky tears into the rest with just a knife and his metal arm, and frankly, it's terrifying. A dark part of Tony is hoping whoever orchestrated all of this, whoever leads Hydra, and Rumlow, end up on the receiving end of Barnes' rage sooner rather than later.

Coulson's already in the helicopter when they get there, sporting a black eye, along with Natasha and Fury who are piloting. Tony informed them over the comms of what had happened and Natasha's face is schooled as she watches him get Clint into the chopper and Bucky and Steve follow. Coulson's got a look in his eye that resembles Bucky's, if you take away the seventy years of brainwashed, world's most deadly assassin and personally feeling responsible for Steve Rogers' well being since he was a kid and put it into _Captain America_ and the _Howling Commando's_ biggest fan. It's still impressive, especially since Coulson wears a solid mask most of the time. Tony's glad he's not the one on the other end of either of those looks.

Barnes has Steve sit next to him while he digs bullets out of his own body with his metal fingers. He seems to have managed to avoid getting hit in vital areas, but it's uncomfortable for Tony to watch, not because he's squeamish but because Bucky doesn't react _at all_. He doesn't make a sound or a face, just keeps his hard, angry gaze on some point in front of him, the light metallic _clink_ of bullets hitting the floor of the helicopter one by one filling the silence. There's three. Barnes patches up the wounds himself.

They land on top of Avengers Tower some time later, Tony deactivating the roof security long enough for them to land before throwing it back up again. They make their way inside and then slowly down to the med lab where Pepper's unexpectedly waiting.

She takes one look at all of them and doesn't say anything, though Tony can tell she wants to, just gestures at a bed to take Clint to and stays near Tony while he disassembles his armor. He doesn't touch her, or talk, she's angry with worry and fear and it's not something either of them wants exploding right now, so he just does as she directs when she sees fit to do so.

Barnes takes care of his own wounds more thoroughly and leaves as quickly as possible. Tony barely hears him order Steve to take the elevator down to floor thirty-four and rest. The Soldier obeys the order as soon as it's given and Bucky's turned away as he heads out of the med lab so Tony can't see his face, but he sees Bucky's shoulders hunch as he goes.

Just when things were starting to get better.

\--

"Please tell me you figured out _something_ ," Tony demands later. They're all patched up and in the communal living room, seated at the long dining table, except for Steve and Bucky. "We lost Steve's _mind_ in this fight, just when he was starting to put himself back _together_ , it better have resulted in something important or I'm going to tear something _important **down**_ ," he threatens.

Fury just looks at him while Pepper holds Tony's hand on top of the table, wincing slightly when Tony grips it too hard. He forces himself to relax it.

Natasha's quiet, eyes focused straight ahead before shifting to Fury then Tony. "We found out who was leading the Hydra agents in S.H.I.E.L.D." she starts, voice calm, "But it goes high up."

" _How_ high," Tony demands.

"Alexander Pierce," Fury finally states, calmly, but Tony can see the tension around his eye, in his neck and shoulders, "He heads S.H.I.E.L.D. above me and directly below the World Security Council. I've known him for years and even _I_ didn't suspect this." Fury laces his fingers together on the top of the table, staring at them before looking back up. 

"So, what, is the World Security Council Hydra too?" Tony asks a little incredulously, but mostly just _done_ with the whole thing. He's not sure he can be very surprised anymore.

"From what we've gathered, no, but Pierce knows we know about him now and he knows about Barnes and Rogers. It will be even more difficult to move from here on out," Coulson replies.

Tony scoffs, leaning back in his seat. Pepper gives his hand a gentle squeeze, just an " _I'm here._ " He loves her so much he can't bare it sometimes.

"So, the question is, what do we do now," Tony says, letting his head fall back and staring up at the ceiling, "And how we do fix Steve."

The room is silent as they all think and absorb and go over what they know. It doesn't look good.

Finally, it's Natasha who says, "Let me try something."

\--

" _You want to **what**_ ," Barnes says, low and dangerous, giving Natasha a look Tony's never seen them give each other before.

"I want to put Rogers in containment and go through all of the trigger words we both know," she states calmly, fists clenching slightly at her sides, " _Everything_."

Barnes actually _growls_ , low and quiet. Tony's tempted to take a step back. He's having flashbacks to _Beauty and the Beast_ so violently he swears this happened at some point in the movie.

"His mind is not a toy to be played with, _Natalia_ ," he growls out. Barnes actually puts a cruel little _twist_ into the name this time and Tony winces, notices Pepper do the same. 

Fury's as stoic as ever.

Natasha's eyes narrow but she doesn't move. "You think I _don't_ know that?" she snaps back, voice dangerously low now, too. 

Barnes is quiet as he stares at her for a few moments, hands slowly unclenching at his sides as he lets his shoulders relax, slightly, eyes looking down and to the side.

"I do know," he says quietly, looking back up at her, " _I'm sorry_ ," he says in Russian, or at least Tony's assuming that was "I'm sorry.” He checks his phone. Yup.

Natasha doesn't relax, exactly, but some of the tension in her shoulders and the air eases away, fingers uncurling.

"If there was another way," she starts a little softer after a moment.

Barnes nods once, sharply, cutting her off before turning toward the elevator to go get Steve.

They all follow except Pepper, who decides to stay behind out of mutual agreement.

He really hopes this _works_.

\--

Stark leads them to a floor of the Tower he said was for ‘Bruce’, who Bucky's brain links to as ‘The Hulk’. It's built far sturdier than the other rooms, the perfect place to test trigger words on one of the world's deadliest, ninety-six year old assassins.

Steve’s compliant, like a doll, and Bucky's having a hard time dealing with it, but he does because he has to. Steve's locked away in there somewhere and he _needs_ to get him _out_.

Tony goes to the floor above Bruce's to monitor from afar while Fury and Coulson head out to gather intel. Natasha and Bucky stay with Steve in the apartment, sitting him on the living room couch and standing opposite it.

They begin.

It's a slow process. Most of the words have no effect, not even on Bucky. He feels a tingle in the far back of his mind, but that's it, and for that he's grateful. But it still doesn't help _Steve_.

Some of the words _do_ have an effect, but they're varied. Steve ends up trying to attack Natasha after two of them and Bucky had to _order_ him to stop, and he _hated_ that. One of the words made him try to kill himself, but Bucky's pitched orders seems to override all of the effective trigger words. Theoretically, the trigger words shouldn't even work at all, but the command Rumlow gave with the tuning fork seemed to act as a reset. Steve's mind has been put on lock down and reset to default, so as blank as he is, most things from long ago are temporarily in tact. It's unnerving, knowing the work of a telepath can be disrupted like this, but given that it was _another_ telepath that did it, he supposes it makes a twisted kind of sense. In any other situation he might say that having parts of yourself, natural or not, permanently removed would be horrible. But finding out that they aren't in a situation like this makes him realize just how fragile a mind can be, how manipulated a person can become. He hates it.

After a few hours they're dwindling down their list of combined words, taking turns back and forth to test them out. When they get to the last few something else happens.

Steve looks right at him, and it's _him_. But it's _not_ him.

"Bucky...?" Steve asks, and he sounds young, _so young_ , _1940's_ young, and Bucky's back straightens where he's sat on the coffee table they pushed back near the tv to give them some space to sit across from Steve when he's not attacking them, because that's not the sound of the Steve he knows _now_. It sounds too much like his memories, even if it doesn't quite fit the body it's coming from anymore.

"What..where- _What happened to your arm_?" Steve asks incredulously while he gestures slightly, which catches his attention and turns his focus on himself, " _What happened to me_?"

He's starting to panic, hyperventilate; it sounds like he's having an asthma attack in a body that doesn't have asthma attacks. Bucky's heart clenches and he quickly looks to Natasha to try another word.

His last one finally stops the younger, increasingly confused version of Steve and returns him to a blank state. 

Bucky's having a hard time staying in the same room. It both feels like he lost something he couldn't have kept in the first place, and like he got something back.

They keep going.

It's Natasha's last word that does it. 

Except Steve's face slowly goes from blank to horrified, and then he's gripping the sides of his head and _screaming_.

They may have undone the sleeper words, but the psychological damage has already been done.


	27. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys! This is the end of the **_Ghosts_** section of this story. I decided to break it off into two parts since this might be getting long for some people, but it is _**not the end of the story itself.**_ I have more I want to do for it. The second part of the story will be called **_Ashes_** , and I'm probably going to start on it today. This is basically just a check point for if any of you want to get off of this ride now. If not, I'll see you in the next part! <3 
> 
> Thank you for sticking around and reading and telling me what you think about this, it's been...overwhelming, actually, but in a good way, and I _appreciate_ and _love it_ **_a lot_**. And thank you to aprofessorstale for betaing and being awesome and being my sniperbro and causing me tears and emotional pain with her wonderful story and making me laugh hysterically at two in the morning. She agreed to beta for the next part of this story too which makes me so happy because I need someone to sob and flail with and I'm honored I get to do it and have become friends with her awesome badass self.
> 
> Thank you everyone, seriously. (: <3 Love to you all.
> 
> P.S. I followed in aprofessorstale's footsteps so there's also kind of a playlist for this? Um. There's a lot of Florence. This is all aprofessorstale's fault I hope you're happy. I also hope this is the right link I'm new to spotify; https://play.spotify.com/user/shaisht/playlist/4iVdhBXu41HAn8FaV1iVbQ  
> fjdklsfjdkls  
> I'm currently making one for Ashes too. [/intense face] I think I'm hooked.

Bucky quickly looks to Natasha, who's staring slightly wide eyed at Steve before he manages to catch her attention. He nods towards the doors of the apartment and she nods once sharply in return, exiting the room quickly and heading for the elevator, where she'll undoubtedly meet Stark.

He approaches Steve slowly, whose screams have trailed off shortly after Natasha closed the doors. He's sobbing now, curled in on himself, deep, painful sounding sobs that get choked off once every few like he's struggling for breath. 

Bucky kneels down in front of him, carefully, reaching his right hand out to slowly place on his shoulder. Steve flinches at the approaching hand at first, breaths stuttering with the motion, before Bucky actually touches him. His hand connects with Steve and the second flinch is more violent, but once Steve realizes it's not a threat, he curls inward further, fingers dug into his hair.

He doesn't say anything for a few minutes, just keeps his hand on Steve's shoulder and watches the tears drop down into Steve's lap. His own face is pinched and his heart hurts, metal fingers curling into a tight fist before he takes a deep breath and forces them to uncurl, to remain unthreatening.

"Steve," he says quietly. Steve curls inwards a little more, trying to shrink in on himself in response. 

Bucky bites his lip for a moment before he slowly rises from the floor, moving carefully and making sure to make noise as he eases himself behind Steve, between his back and the couch. He moves his arms and legs with the same care, wrapping his arms gently around Steve's waist and setting his legs on either side of Steve's. He slides his warm palm up to cover Steve's rapidly beating heart over his shirt, pressing gently at first before pushing more firmly, moving them both so his chest becomes flush to Steve's back.

" _Breathe with me_ ," he says near Steve's ear, making his voice clear but not authoritative, just a suggestion.

Steve's breaths stutter again at the words, but a moment later he's trying to take a deep breath. It takes him a few minutes to stop catching on the sobs and eventually they start to subside, breath syncing up with Bucky's like it used to when all they had was each other and a run down, old little apartment in Brooklyn.

Steve gradually relaxes back into the hold, gentling the grip he has on his hair before his fingers slide out of it altogether, moving to rest down at his sides.

Bucky presses his forehead to the back of Steve's neck, eyes open and unseeing beyond the curtain of his hair. He's trying to push down everything else, the anger and pain and urge to _snap break **destroy**_. It's difficult to push things down for a reason other than programming and eighty years of pent up emotions, but in the face of Steve needing him, it’s somehow easier than it was before. Now isn't the time for Bucky, Steve needs him and he _always_ comes first.

After about ten minutes he feels Steve shift to the side slightly and Bucky lifts his head. Steve turns his own to look at him over his shoulder and Bucky looks back, reading his eyes. After a minute, he gives the smallest nod. Steve's eyelids lower slightly in response, still watching Bucky, _always_ watching Bucky.

\--

Tony meets Natasha at the elevator. She stopped at the floor above Bruce's first, and Tony gets in. He's about to push the button for the floor she just came from before he sees her shake her head. He changes direction and presses the button for the med lab instead, biting his tongue. He saw the whole thing on surveillance. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it _wasn't_ what actually ended up happening, and if possible, he now hates Hydra even _more_.

Natasha exits the elevator at the med lab, and Tony watches her go over to check on Clint before the doors close and he takes the elevator further up to the communal living room, where JARVIS notifies him Ms. Potts is still waiting. He finds her sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen's island with an iced tea. She looks up when she hears him.

"You look terrible," she starts, getting up and abandoning her drink altogether. It doesn't look like she's had much of it.

"Do I?" he tries to joke, but it falls flat. She frowns.

"That bad?" she asks, reaching up to rest a palm on his cheek.

Tony just grimaces slightly and then she's hugging him. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face into her neck, breathing in her cinnamon and spice perfume and letting the warmth of it flood his mind for a few minutes. 

He pulls back after a bit, watching her watching him. He's not sure what he did to deserve her staring at him like that, all warmth and understanding and worry, but with a strength that lies under it all that could tear down the strongest of individuals, but he's glad he did.

"I'm taking Hydra down," he starts, mouth pressed together into a firm line, "They deserve the worst they could possibly get and then some."

Pepper just looks at him for a minute before leaning into to place a gentle kiss to his cheek, giving him a nod when she pulls back. 

"Where do we start?" she asks.

Tony's eyes widen slightly before he's shaking his head. "Pepper, these guys are dangerous. I don't want you involved. I need to keep you _safe_ -"

She cuts him off with a few fingers pressed to his lips, expression firm. "Tony, I am not going to idly sit back while you take on the world by yourself. Besides," she pulls her fingers away, "From what you've told me, the two of them were really starting to do better and then Hydra stepped in. They deserve all the help they can get."

He opens his mouth to argue before he closes it again, expression going soft. "What did I do to deserve you, Pepper."

She gives him a subdued but still bright smile, turning back to the kitchen island and grabbing her drink, moving to dump the liquid and ice down the drain. "Well, there was that fabulous blue dress you bought me for my birthday," she teases.

Tony gives an honest grin at that. "Ah that, I _did_ have pretty good taste."

Pepper gives him another smile before the lights in the room flicker for a few seconds. He frowns, looking up while he summons a holoscreen. The elevator doors chime open a few minutes later and Natasha practically comes running into the room, expression grim and urgent. Tony's on alert all over again. "JARVIS? What just happened? Natasha what-" he starts.

"They're gone," she cuts him off.

He shares a look with Pepper before all three of them are running for the elevator, taking it down to the thirty-fourth floor.

When they get there, there's nothing out of place, everything's the same as Natasha left it after they finally broke the sleeper words, but Rogers and Barnes are nowhere to be seen.

Tony has JARVIS check every floor and the security measures, and JARVIS reports that all of the security cameras have been set to go dark for the next five minutes. Natasha and him share a look before she's taking off, taking the elevator down to the lobby. Tony and Pepper head to the roof, but there's nothing there, either.

They all meet back in the med lab some minutes later where Clint still lies unconscious, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Nothing," Natasha says, and Tony reports the same.

"What do you think happened?" Pepper asks.

"Normally, I'd guess Hydra, but..." Tony trails off.

"They left," Natasha chimes in, turning her gaze to the city outside of the large, glass windows, "They've got a few minutes head start, at the least. They're gone."

"But why?" Pepper asks, concerned, "The Tower's the safest place for them to be.”

"JARVIS," Tony calls.

" _Sir?_ "

"Pull up the monitor feed from floor thirty-four and rewind it to just after Agent Romanoff left the room."

" _Yes, Sir_."

A holographic screen materializes a few feet in front of them and they watch as Barnes tries to calm Rogers down. 

"Turn up audio," Tony commands.

But there's nothing. Only Bucky saying Steve's name and the sound of Steve's deep sobs.

"There," Natasha says after a few minutes, pointing to the moment after Rogers has turned his head towards Barnes.

"JARVIS, rewind five seconds and enhance."

The video enlarges and clears further. He sees Barnes nod his head just slightly. That still doesn't answer _why,_ though.

They're all quiet for a few minutes after that until Pepper speaks up, voice soft, "Maybe..."

Tony and Natasha turn to look at her. "What?" Tony asks, clearly not seeing what she is.

"Maybe they left because of what happened today," she says, gesturing towards Clint. Natasha's eyes clear.

"I don't-" Tony cuts himself off, finally getting it.

"I know it's been a long time, but he's still Steven Rogers, isn't he?" Pepper says, looking over at Clint, "From what I've read on him, Steven Rogers wouldn't want to continuously put his friends in harm’s way. He's been staying with you guys for a while, and Tony, you said he was getting better. Maybe this was just the tipping point where _Steve_ decided he couldn't do this to any of you anymore."

Tony looks to Natasha, looking for something there, on Rogers or Barnes. She nods. He lets out a sigh.

"We still need to find them," he says after a minute, looking back at Pepper, "Even if that's what he wants, it's not safe. They're two guys - yes, highly trained ninety-something super soldier assassins - but they're also still just two messed up _guys_. They're going to need all the help they can get," he repeats Pepper's words. She gives him a smile. "And Hydra's pissed me off personally. I say the plan is still on, we take it to them, mess up _their_ lives and property for a change."

Natasha nods and gives a smirk that reminds him a bit of the more mischievous side of Barnes ( _she may have learned it from him, for all he knows_ ), a spark in her eye.

Pepper stands a little straighter and Tony finds determination there.

He turns back to the screen, watches Rogers look back at Barnes and Barnes nod. They slipped out from under them, from Tony and _JARVIS_ , from Natasha. If they can do that, then it's a little more reassuring that they might be able to do the same with Hydra while they’re both out there.

They've been trained to for seventy years, and by this point, it's a wonder S.H.I.E.L.D. managed to catch them at all in the first place. Tony's willing to bet that was only a result of crappy planning.

Left to their own devices, they slip away like ghosts.


	28. Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just finally drew a proper picture of The Winter Soldier and The Soldier and didn't know where to put it and I wanted to share it with everyone, so here.

http://shaishart.tumblr.com/post/150807379619/screams-ive-never-actually-like-done-a-proper

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sepia and Red; Past and Future](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092827) by [MyriadQuiddities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadQuiddities/pseuds/MyriadQuiddities)
  * [Summer and Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093094) by [MyriadQuiddities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadQuiddities/pseuds/MyriadQuiddities)




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